


Dreamers

by Corona



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Betrayal, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Elves, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - The Final Piece, Dreamers (Dragon Age), Fifth Blight (Dragon Age), Friendship, Gen, Kidnapping, Nightmares, Poisoning, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Post-War Table Operation: Protect Clan Lavellan (Dragon Age), Psychological Trauma, Vallaslin (Dragon Age), War Table Operation: Protect Clan Lavellan (Dragon Age) - Success, Wycome (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-01-24 20:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21344476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corona/pseuds/Corona
Summary: The Inquisitor is asomniari. A rather idealisticsomniariwho loves the shadow of a world he lives in and wants only peace between the humans and elves. Solas can't decide whether he's just made his newest best friend or his worst enemy.Tracks the course of Leas Lavellan and Solas' friendship through DA:I, on the basis of their being dreamer mages.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan & Solas, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Kudos: 56





	1. First Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Translations at the end. Also, this is my first time writing from Solas' perspective, so let me know how well I do his character!

The moment the last shade falls, Solas approaches the newcomer, the Dalish elf to whom he so inadvertently anchored the Fade. As he does so, he looks him over for any signs of injury. Throughout the preceding fight, the man's youthful features had been twisted into an expression of great pain, and Solas could see no obvious reason for it. He still cannot now, but it could well be the proximity of the Anchor to the mark.

Before the Dalish elf can say a word, Solas grabs his wrist. "Quickly! Before more come through!" is all the explanation he bothers to give, and with that, he holds the man's hand up to the rift.

At once, sparks fly from the Anchor, and the tightness in Solas' chest eases somewhat as the green beam of light forms between it and the rift. This, at least, he was correct about, and that is some small comfort. Already, the rift is closing, but Solas has hardly a second to bask in his relief before a tortured scream of agony pierces his ears, and he stumbles as the Dalish elf falls to his knees.

Solas whips his head around, and he sees the man recoiling from the rift, face twisted with even greater pain than before; the scream rising from his throat reminds him of the slaves in Arlathan who the nobles branded with the _vallaslin_. For a moment, he stares, flummoxed—he knew the Anchor would cause pain, but he was not expecting agony of _this_ degree. What has gone wrong that the man sounds like he might die at any second?

_More tests,_ he thinks. _A simple anaesthetic may help—_But before he can get any further in that idea, the rift closes, and the furious sparking in the Anchor stops as quickly as it began. Solas drops the man's arm, and he buries his face in his hands, groaning deeply, while Solas watches. His chest is now even tighter than it was just moments ago, and he wonders what he can do to amend _this_ error.

The dwarf approaches, eyes wide, and looks at the Dalish elf. "Holy shit," he mutters. "Are you all right?"

The man looks at him, face gradually smoothing out into a normal, if highly alarmed, expression. The fright is plain in his eyes, which are as blue as the sky—the sort of eyes they would write songs about in Arlathan. "I'm fine," he says, shaking his head. "But thank you." He looks up at Solas, then. "What was—what did you do?!"

Solas shakes his head, defensive though he ought not to be. "_I_ did nothing," he says. "The credit is yours."

The Dalish elf looks down at his hand. "You mean this," he says.

Explanations are offered then, introductions made; the young man seems to be the gregarious sort and casts Solas no suspicious glances. Indeed, when Varric admits that he kept the Anchor from killing him, he smiles a broad and charming smile, the sort that stretches across his face and brings a spark into those brilliant blue eyes. Then he bows, arm stretched across his chest and all, while holding Solas' gaze, like a man who's spent his life at court and not in some forest somewhere. Interesting—Solas had not thought any Dalish would be so polite to a bare-faced 'flat-ear' such as himself, and in this case, he's not sure he deserves the courtesy. "_'Ma serannas_," he says, with a hint of what Solas believes is the eastern dialect: a Dalish of the Free Marches, then.

"Thank me if we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process," he says as the man rises out of his bow. The barest hint of a grimace crosses his face, and he looks down at his hand again; the pang of guilt twists Solas' insides, and he turns to speak to Cassandra.

As they get on their way afterwards, Solas glances at the young man again, passes his eyes briefly over Dirthamen's _vallaslin_. "I am sorry. I do not believe I caught your name?" he says, and the man offers him another smile, every bit as genuine and charming as the last, while he brushes a strand of red hair out of his face.

"_Ame_ _Uvunleas Rahnmyathis or'Lethal Lavellan,_" he says. "But, please, it's just Leas. Everyone calls me that."

Solas bows his head as they head towards the bank. "_An'daran atish'an,_" he says, and the man's smile only widens.

"I'm not sure it's peaceful or safe," he says with a chuckle, and the briefest of smirks crosses Solas' face. That is true enough. "_Y mar enaste lan em lath'in'iseth._"

They continue down the bank, Leas falling into step at the head of their little band as though it were as easy and instinctual as breathing. Solas watches him, and as they approach the river again—as the pain flares up inside him that tells him demons are ahead—he sees his shoulders suddenly hunch. It is only for a moment, but the movement is there, and that makes him curious. When the fight has broken out, and he has cast a barrier over the group, he comes to stand at his side, and he observes Leas out of the corner of his eye. His face is again twisted with great pain, in precisely the same way that it was before, but the firm set of his jaw and the intensity of his gaze marks him as one who does not intend to make a production out of it.

_He is not injured. Is it the demons? Could he be…_ But Solas shakes that idea before it can get away from him. This is no time for such speculation, and the talent is practically extinct in this Age.

Once the fight is over and the pair of them have made their way down the bank to join Cassandra and Varric on the river, Cassandra takes a step towards the other side. At this moment, however, Leas holds up a hand. "Wait, please," he says, and Cassandra narrows her eyes at him.

"You are not in any position to even be making requests, you know," she says.

"I know," Leas says, "but I can sense something at the other end of the river. On my left. More demons, I think. We should take care of them."

Cassandra's brow furrows. For a moment, she looks on the verge of objecting again, but the pain in Solas' gut, like someone is trying to bisect him starting from the left, is enough to convince him of the truth of Leas' words. To distract himself from the first seedlings of excitement and alarm that have been sown and are now growing within him, he looks at the Seeker. "I believe he is correct," he says. "There _are_ more demons at the other end of the river."

Cassandra looks between the two of them, then slowly nods. "As you say," she says, and she beckons for Leas to lead the way down the river. Unfortunately, that leaves Solas with nothing to distract him from the possibility looming in front of him.

The demons at the other end of the river, up the stairs, are three in number, and they loom over the corpse of some unfortunate. Solas observes Leas' face as they get closer, and there it is again—the slight grimace and the twitch of the eye and the way he sets his jaw that all indicate blooming pain. The expression remains fixed in place throughout the fight, and though he knows it could all be a coincidence, still, he cannot decide whether the feeling growing within him is tentative excitement or complete dread.

But he need not feel such things until later, he reasons, whatever this man is. He must have another distraction. As they head back down the steps afterwards, he addresses Leas, speaks of the Dalish and how they rejected him. He does not expect Leas to be any different, so when he chances another look at him and sees that his eyes have gone wide and shining like a puppy's, and that his mouth has twisted into a small frown, he almost stops dead. Compassion? Pity? For a complete stranger, a bare-faced flat-ear? Surely it cannot be…

"_Ir abelas,_" he says, and though Solas expects mockery or sarcasm, he hears none. "They should have been more accommodating."

Varric seems equally displeased. "Can't you elves just play nice for once?" he grumbles, and Leas chuckles and shakes his head.

"I wish," he says. "The Dalish are often judged too harshly, often on the basis of lies and rumours, but… I don't have to ask where the accusations of haughtiness come from. If you heard the way some people in my clan speak of the city elves, _Creators!_" Another grimace crosses his face, and he shakes his head. "It's not helping our situation any. But that's an argument for another day. Point being, I regret the other clans were so harsh to you, Solas. I hope you see we are not all like that."

Solas is quiet for a long moment, unsure what to make of all this, unable to work up an adequate response. Finally, he settles for a bland, "Thank you. It is pleasing to know some of you think that way."

"Elven parents are the only things needed to be an elf, as far as I'm concerned. You don't need _vallaslin_ or the culture or anything like that. But try telling that to some of the snobs…" He rolls his eyes, and again, Solas can detect no trace of mockery. It almost makes him want to hope—perhaps the man's words are true, and Solas only had bad luck in his encounters with the Dalish. But he knows better than to hope blindly by this point.

Cassandra, quiet until now, looks at Leas. "What about the elf-blooded—" she begins to say, but as they reach the next set of steps, the Anchor flares up again, angry sparks flying out of it as it did when Leas closed the rift. Leas lets out a pained cry, and once again, Solas' insides twist with the guilt. This was not meant for him…

"We must hurry," Solas says, "before the mark consumes him."

Moments later, the sparks die down, and Leas shakes his head. He offers them a pained yet, alarmingly, genuine smile. "I'm all right," he says. "Let's keep going."

A long while later, as they're heading up to the mountain path, Varric pipes up again. "I've never heard of mages being able to sense demons like that. Not from so far off, anyway," he says. "Even Blondie and Daisy couldn't. How can you…?"

"I know much of the Fade," Solas informs him, though he's uncertain whether it was he or Leas who was being asked. "Far more than any Circle mage. That sort of knowledge gives one… abilities."

"And yet knowledge may not be required," Leas says, looking back at them. "I know no more of the Fade than the average Dalish mage, but I also have… abilities. For a start, I can sense demons—their presence causes me pain. It's not helped me much before, not in the waking world, but I daresay it could be _useful_ now, given the situation!" His eyes light up and he smiles again as he says this, but Solas almost freezes in his tracks.

Varric frowns. "So he has the knowledge, and that gives him abilities, and you have the abilities, but no knowledge," he says. "What is this, a chicken-and-egg situation?"

Leas laughs. "I've not the hubris to question the talents of a mage who I've only just met and whose work saved my life," he says, and the words are like a soothing balm on the rising panic in Solas' chest. Thank goodness, he is not looking too closely (yet)—but that was a near-miss if ever there was one. "Nor do I find it hard to believe that intimacy with the Fade could grant him the same talents I was born with. If they help fix this, then does it matter?"

Varric hums in agreement, and Solas shakes his head, mouth opening and closing as he struggles to think of what to say. He hasn't named it for what it is, nor has he specified what else he can do, but from this alone, it is clear—the man is almost certainly a dreamer.

One to whom Solas has just anchored the Fade.

_Fenedhis._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**
> 
> _"Ame Uvunleas… or'Lethal Lavellan."_: "I am Uvunleas… of Clan Lavellan."
> 
> _"Y mar enaste lan em lath'in'iseth."_: "But your grace warms my heart."
> 
> All translations taken from FenxShiral's [Project Elvhen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883).


	2. A Request for Instruction

Solas can sense the Veil weakening.

Of course, it is already weak in this area, thanks to the Breach. But some of his creation yet remains, keeping Haven from being swarmed by the spirits, and as much as Solas detests what the Veil has done to the elves, he supposes they should all be grateful for its presence at the moment. He is far from the village now, walking along the river to clear his head, so if there is another rift, there would be time to deal with any demons before the people of Haven would be any the wiser. With a quiet sigh, he readjusts his grip on his staff and proceeds to the source of the growing rupture, just past some trees.

Once he emerges from the trees, Solas scans the area, and there he sees what is causing the problem. He frowns.

"Leas?" he says.

The young man turns to look at him and smiles. "_An'eth'ara_, Solas," he says cheerfully. He lowers his hand and the green sparks flying out of it immediately disappear, as does the feeling of a coming tear in the Veil.

"_Lath'in'iseth,_" Solas says, approaching him. "But what _are_ you doing? I could sense the Veil weakening from several yards off."

Leas' face pinches with guilt, and his cheeks flush with what Solas presumes is mild embarrassment. "Ah. _Ir abelas._ I did not mean to worry you. I was just experimenting with this." He holds up his marked hand, and Solas' brow bounces. He steps closer until he is just about at Leas' side.

"Indeed?" he prompts.

"Indeed," Leas says. "This has settled down since we stopped the Breach from growing. It doesn't hurt, and it's stable. That's good. But it interests me. I want to know where it came from—and what else it can do."

Solas glances at him. "Beyond closing rifts—and, judging from what you were doing, opening them?"

"Yes."

"Was that wise? What if you had opened a rift and demons had poured out? They could have overwhelmed you."

Leas nods, acknowledging the words. "Not my most sensible decision, I admit," he says. "I just wanted to see if I could do it. Something tells me this mark can do much more than just interact with rifts, and I wanted to see what else was there. Not only that, but to see how my own talents interact with it. I suspect that combined, they could be potent."

"You've mentioned your talents before," Solas says, ignoring the spike of mingled dread and excitement in his gut and the fact that he should not be encouraging this. If the man is a dreamer, should he not leave him untrained and unprepared? It'll make what he has to do that much easier. And yet… "I assume you mean your ability to sense demons."

"Yes, and others that I haven't developed yet," Leas says. He rests a hand on his hip and leans into it. "You've heard of dreamers, haven't you, Solas? What the Tevinters call _somniari_?"

Well, there it is. He's finally named it. Every instinct of his tells Solas that he should back off, and yet when he finally hears the word, something that is definitely _excitement_ blooms within him. It's been so long since he's met another dreamer, so long since he could commiserate with anyone about his experiences in the Fade, and it will be a very long time before he has to carry out his plans, and it is comforting to learn that there is one person in the world who is not so Tranquil. What's the harm in sharing in this right now, then? "I have, yes. As a matter of fact, I _am_ one. Are you saying…?"

Abruptly, a broad grin forms on and spreads across Leas' face, and a sparkle comes into his eyes. "Truly?" he breathes. "You're a dreamer? Creators, I can't believe my luck—I never thought I'd meet another—I am one as well, Solas! I am a dreamer!"

There, confirmation, straight from the horse's mouth. Solas feels warmth spreading through his veins, but he can't decide if it's the warmth of excitement, of joy at meeting a fellow, or the sickly warmth of dread. A dreamer, a bigger threat to his plans than he had expected, a dreamer he has just anchored the Fade to—he _must_ get that mark off—but a dreamer, so like him, perhaps even a friend, not so Tranquil as all the rest. And the talent is… "That is remarkable," Solas says, smiling. "I had thought the talent had gone extinct in this Age. But you say you are one?"

Leas nods vigorously. "The only dreamer among the Dalish, or so my Keeper says. I can't say I can do much with it. But the number of demons that have tried to possess me over the years and the clarity of my dreams seem proof enough to me."

Solas inclines his head. "Yes, dreamers are magnets for demons, and our dreams are very clear. Can you yet shape the Fade? Walk in it?"

This time, Leas shakes his head, and he sucks his lip with what appears to be mild disappointment. "Sadly, no," he says. "I've never had the opportunity to learn, and my clan didn't have the resources to teach me, and I don't want to overextend myself and attract more demons than I can handle. I know how to survive the demons, and I can Fade-walk to some extent, but that's really about it."

_And the elves of Arlathan were capable of so much,_ Solas thinks bitterly. _How low the Veil has brought them, for a dreamer to be so ignorant!_

A momentary pause, then Leas' eyes light up again, rather like a puppy's. "Actually, that gives me an idea, if you'd be amenable to hearing it," he says, and there's a distinct undercurrent of excitement in his words.

Solas inclines his head slowly. "What is it?"

"Well, you seem a skilled enough dreamer," Leas says. "You know a great deal about the Fade and the mark, and you use your abilities to watch spirits re-enact history. I'm not sure I can be so esoteric, sadly, but… would you please teach me, Solas? Teach me how to be a _real_ _somniari_?" His eyes get wider as he says it, and he looks up at Solas, like a puppy or a child asking for a treat. The eagerness in every plane of his face reminds him of the children of Arlathan when they first began their lessons in magic, and it rends at his heart to see. For a long moment, he is silent.

He should not do this, he knows. There will come a time when he will need to leave and get his plans back on track, and when he does, he will not want this man to be strong enough to pose a genuine threat to him. But, all the same, they need him _right now_, and they can't afford to deny him the edge he'll need in the battles to come; Solas' plans won't matter if Leas falls before he can seal the Breach for good. And it has been so long… would a bit of companionship and fellowship, however selfish, really hurt? And if he is a dreamer, if he is not so Tranquil as all the rest… maybe this world isn't as irredeemable as Solas had believed.

Slowly, Solas nods, though half his instincts are screaming at him that this is another terrible mistake that he will regret sorely later. But as he was with the creation of the Veil and everything else, Solas is sufficiently at war with himself that he cannot truly see which is the best path. At the very least, he can be sure this will be for the best in the short term. "I would be happy to," he says, and it's not a complete lie. "It is pleasing to hear the talent has not yet been lost. If it still exists anywhere, I am glad to nurture it."

Leas' face splits into a broad grin, and he offers Solas a courtly bow. "_'Ma serannas! Nuvas ema ir'enastela!_" he cries exultantly, while Solas returns his beam with a small smile of his own. "I had never thought I would get such a chance!"

"_Nuva lasa su ma enaste,_" Solas says, bowing his head slightly while wondering at the man's good manners. They would have fit in well at the court of Arlathan, though Leas' exuberance, gregariousness, and innocent heart would have kept him firmly in the outer circles—assuming he even survived the courtly intrigue. Still, he supposes that stranger things have happened.

Leas lifts out of his bow, but he still grins at Solas, eyes sparkling with delight. "Then where do we start?" he says, like an overeager student. "Oh! Can you tell me what we are called in elven? For all the little lore I have ever found about dreamers, I never did find the term…"

"The word is _I've'an'virelan_," Solas says. "_I've'an_, for the Fade; _vira_, to walk. _I've'an'virevhen_ is the plural."

"_I've'an'virelan,_" Leas repeats, an expression of thoughtfulness wiping the grin from his face. He stumbles over the word, again much like a child, and his accent is so painfully Dalish that it makes Solas cringe, but the joy in his face, in his eyes, almost assuages it. "At last, an elven word for what I am. _'Ma serannas._"

"_Sathem lasa halani,_" Solas says smoothly, with another incline of his head. "Come, walk with me. I can tell you of the ancient dreamers and what they could do, and I have some books on the subject in my quarters, if you'd like to peruse them."

Again that excited, almost wild grin, the grin of a man who takes ineffable joy in both life and every good thing that comes his way. Solas can't help but feel a pang at his naïveté. "_Gladly_," Leas says, and he at once falls into step at Solas' side. "There must be so much to learn, so much that I can only dream about. Pun not intended," he says, and Solas chuckles.

"Indeed. Sometimes even I am amazed," he says, and they begin to head back through the trees towards Haven. "Let's see. Most of the ancient elves were accomplished dreamers. For them, it was as easy and natural as breathing…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**
> 
> "_Lath'in'iseth._": "Heart warmth / Your grace warms my heart."
> 
> "_Nuvas ema ir'enastela!_": "May you have great blessings!"
> 
> "_Nuva lasa su ma enaste._": "May it give you grace / May it grant you favour."
> 
> "_Sathem lasa halani._": "Pleased to give assistance / Pleased to help."
> 
> All translations taken from FenxShiral's [Project Elvhen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883).


	3. Ma Da'len Somniar

"This is… alarmingly clear."

Solas looks at Leas as they stand outside the chantry, the slightly shifting and distorting walls and the even greener sky the only real signs that they are in the Fade. Even so, Solas knows it is nothing more than a simulacrum: there is no real life here, no smell, no taste, no wind, nothing of what the Chantry terms the 'divine spark' that differentiates mortals from spirits. Most would be unnerved, he knows, but it is comfortable enough to him, even if it is a shadow of what it once was, what it should still be.

But Leas appears deeply unsettled, and Solas frowns at his expression. Earlier, he had said that the idea of a world where the Fade and reality mingled sounded wonderful, if perilous, and Solas' heart had leapt at his marvel. There is no marvel here, however, only uneasiness. "In what sense?" Solas prompts him.

"Can't you sense it?" Leas asks, frowning. He takes another long look around him. "I can smell… I can _smell_ things. Spices on the wind, blood, incense in the chantry—everything I've come to expect. And I can hear… I can hear the wind. Feel it, even. It's so… lifelike. If it hadn't been night five minutes ago, I would think this _was_ the real world."

Solas stares at him for a moment, then looks around, trying again to sense the things of which Leas speaks. But he comes up with nothing, only the simulacrum. "That is… unusual," he says tactfully. "To dream with such clarity that the Fade and the real world seem the same? Even I have not encountered such a thing before."

Leas looks down at his marked hand. "It must be this," he says, lifting and examining it. "It gives me a connection to the Fade beyond what I already had. Who's to say it can't make me dream with even greater clarity?" His voice trembles for just a moment and Solas can detect no excitement at the idea—unsurprising, he supposes, given what little he has heard of the life the man has led.

"That is most probable," he agrees. Another silence falls, and he exhales. The Fade was never so real even to the elves of Arlathan—it was always noticeably _different_, no matter how interconnected the two realms were, and it could never be more than a simulacrum—but there is something about how real it is to Leas. The man is more connected to the Fade than possibly any elf alive today other than Solas himself, and yet he can do so little with it because of Solas' own creation. It is so pitiable that it borders on tragic, and though he wars with himself, the greater part of him thinks that surely there is nothing wrong with giving Leas a taste of what he could have had, in another time, another place, especially if it helps them in the battles to come.

Or perhaps he is merely trying to make himself feel better. Who can say?

"How else is it affecting you?" he asks after a moment. "Is there anything I should be aware of other than your dreams and the pain?"

Leas considers it, eyeing the mark as he does so. "Not that I'm aware of," he says slowly. "It's painful when it nears a rift or any group of demons. It's excruciating when I close a rift. It seems to brim with raw potential, but what that potential might be, I don't know. Apart from that…"

Solas nods. He had been expecting such an answer. "I suppose we shall see," he says. "We have time, after all. However, I must ask that you come straight to me if anything out of the ordinary happens. It _should_ be stable, but I worry how it might interact with your abilities, especially now that we are training them. They could become more potent when combined, but they could also pose a serious danger." That stands true without factoring his own plans into it, and Leas makes a small noise of agreement.

"I will, don't worry," he says, with a reassuring smile. "For the moment, however, it seems calm."

That is some relief, and Solas permits himself a moment of it. "Good. Now, I thought we might try something slightly different tonight." He heads down the steps towards the entrance to Haven, the boundary of this part of the Fade, and Leas follows him. As they do, they pass by the other sleeping minds, whose dreams whirl in myriad indistinct shapes, and if Solas were a weaker man, he would think they were begging to be entered. As it is, he shall enter no one's mind without their permission; consequently, he is the only person whose dreams Leas has entered (carefully controlled versions, of course; now's not the time to give the game away). That will have to change.

They reach the gate, and Solas raises his hand. "Watch carefully. Tonight, I shall take you further afield." Leas stands at his side and leans in somewhat, and Solas slows his movements so that the younger man can see how he warps the boundary, how he pulls it around them until it gives way. He steps forward, and Leas follows, and just like that, they are standing in the raw Fade.

"It is a matter of intent, exiting realms to walk the Fade," he says, lowering his hand. "Simple enough, even for a beginner. The boundaries should give way before you." Leas nods slowly throughout and looks curiously back at the boundary they have just crossed. "Would you like to try?"

"I think that would be an idea," Leas says. Solas nods, and it is an even simpler matter for them to step back over the boundary and into the realm that has taken Haven's form. Leas appears to allow himself a moment of adjustment, then he turns back, raises his hand, and presses it to the boundary. Even here, Solas can see his mark, and even before the two make contact, the border is already shifting and warping. Whether that is a natural consequence of the mark or only the raw, untapped ability of an apprentice dreamer, Solas is uncertain, and he's not sure he'll like the answer.

For a few moments, however, nothing happens, and Leas screws up his face and gesticulates slightly, his attempts at imitating Solas quite overdone. "Calm," Solas says. "You need not try so hard. Such boundaries are resistant to brute force. Focus your mind on _wanting_ it to happen, and it will happen."

Leas nods and visibly relaxes, and seconds later, the boundary gives way, and they step out into the raw Fade again. "Excellent," Solas says.

"Is it always that simple?" Leas asks in a tone full of wonder. "What if I am trying to leave the realm of a powerful demon?"

"_That_ is a far more complicated matter, yes," is Solas' immediate response. "In such cases, the boundaries will be stronger, and if you cannot kill or drive away the demon, you will need to reshape the Fade to leave. I will show you how to do that later. For now…"

They begin to walk through the Fade, as easily as if they were ambling around Haven. "You said you planned to take me further afield," Leas presses.

"Indeed. Dreamers can go very far in the Fade in a single night, sometimes from one end of the continent to the other. I suspect such an ability could be useful to you in the days to come, wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh, yes," Leas says, and he nods vigorously, that excited spark coming into his eyes once again. "I can already imagine the possibilities! Or a fraction of the possibilities, I suppose. So, how far are we going?"

"Quite far," Solas says with a rare smile. The idea had come to him after he had first heard of Leas' family a few days since, and it is one of those rare ideas of his that he has had no desire to shake off. "Watch. As we walk, I will show you how to reach our destination on your own. Something tells me you will wish to return frequently."

"Oh?" But Leas does not question him further, as if sensing that Solas wants to surprise him, and for that, Solas is grateful. He's not sure if he can call the young man a friend just yet, but it seems only right that he do this for him after what his actions resulted in.

They walk far, and though Leas occasionally seems agitated and eager to get on, they do not hurry—time is as meaningless here as it was in the days of Arlathan. As they go on, Solas points out several notable 'landmarks', so to speak, and makes Leas memorise them; thankfully, the man's memory is strong, and he learns quickly. In between these 'landmarks', he speaks of how one can master the art of Fade-walking, and Leas hangs onto his every word. Again, Solas can't help but compare him to a child eager to start his lessons, and he wonders that the Dalish could produce someone so willing to learn and see a world outside his preconceptions. But for once, he does not voice that thought aloud; it seems in rather poor taste, given what he has in mind.

At long last, they arrive in the simulacrum of a mid-sized forest bordered on the east and south by the coast. They have not got far into it when Leas suddenly straightens, sniffs the air, and frowns. "Is this…" he murmurs, and he gives Solas a glance that Solas supposes he meant to be surreptitious, but he trails off while Solas says nothing still and keeps himself from smiling. They continue on a little further, and soon the first aravel appears among the trees.

Leas freezes, and his oversized blue eyes get even wider in the shifting light of the Fade. "Is that—_Creators!_" He whips his head around and stares at Solas, expression caught between shock and delight, and Solas now allows himself to smile, admittedly rather smugly. "Solas! You _took me to the Free Marches?!_"

"I did," Solas says, his smile turning into a small grin. "I _did_ tell you dreamers could travel far. This is your clan, is it not?"

"I—" Leas turns around again and observes his surroundings, but he does not do so for long. "Yes, this is—I recognise this part of the forest! My clan were camped here when I left for the Conclave! How did you know?"

Solas shrugs a little. "I overheard you saying they were still near Wycome," he says. "It was easy to extrapolate from there. Given how long it is likely to be before you can see them in the flesh again, I thought you would appreciate being able to see them in the Fade."

The grin spreading across Leas' face is all the answer he needs. "I do indeed, _very_ much so," he says, his voice brimming with scarcely contained excitement and relief. At once, he sets off towards the aravels, and Solas follows him. "To know I can find them in the Fade, even if I can't interact with them as normal… _'ma serannas_, Solas."

"_De da'rahn,_" Solas says, and they breach the permitter of the camp. All around are aravels and statues to the Evanuris, even one to himself—Solas tries not to look at that one for long. Somewhere to the right, he can just faintly see the herd of halla, sleeping in the grass, as fine beasts as they were in the days of Arlathan. Next to him, Leas breathes in the scents and quiet of home, and quiet contentment replaces his excitement, for a scarce moment.

Then he looks at Solas, narrowing his eyes. "Wait. Everyone's asleep now, guards excluded. In the Fade. How will they not see us? Deshanna and the other mages especially?"

Again, Solas smirks, and he waves a hand, contorting the Fade around them. Leas astutely watches the movements. When he has finished, he drops his hand. "This will conceal us from them," he says. "Again, it is a simple matter."

Leas raises an eyebrow at him. "Everything in the Fade seems a simple matter to you." His tone is dry.

Solas chuckles. "After the amount of time I have spent here, yes, I suppose so," he admits. "In time, it will become simple to you as well, I promise."

"That would be something," Leas says. He shakes his head slightly. "Come. Let's look around."

They begin to make their way through the camp, passing by the remnants of the night's campfire, the crafting stations, the food stores, and more besides. Leas spares these a look, but Solas can tell that his real goal is the aravels, and indeed, he only slows down once they have reached them. Surrounding them now are about two hundred indistinct shapes, little realms all of their own, the thoughts and dreams of Leas' clanmates, and in the centre, Solas can see what he supposes must be Keeper Deshanna and the other mages of the clan. These four wander, as mages do, and they pass them by, but they spare them not a glance, as Solas had said.

Still, Solas catches the drift of their thoughts. _Situation is worrying—we need to get the clan out—what's Deshanna waiting for, we have to go—we've got enough problems—Leas with this 'Inquisition'—overtures of friendliness, but they're just Chantry puppets—why is he helping—what about this Breach—can he truly close the Breach—they say he has a mark, a divine mark—Herald of Andraste, what bullshit, how _dare_ the Chantry—some of us need to go, no good can come of leaving the Breach in the sky—let them burn, it should be our turn again—_

Leas initially jumps at the sudden influx of his fellows' minds, but he seems to adjust quickly enough. "Strange," he murmurs. "Surface thoughts only, but I'd rather not get more acquainted with their inner minds than that. Let's keep moving."

"Haven't you heard their thoughts before?" Solas asks as they proceed through the aravels. "Even entered their minds?"

"Deshanna permitted it a few times, but when the others heard of it, they refused to let me near them," Leas says. "We don't get much privacy, living like this. I think they'd rather not lose what little they have to a form of magic they barely understand. And, well…" He trails off, and though Solas looks at him, he does not elaborate.

The thoughts continue. Most revolve around the mundanities of clan life, worries about the next day's hunt, or apprentices who aren't doing their jobs properly, or a sick child, or which design of _vallaslin_ some adolescent will choose for their coming of age—Solas' hands tremble with sudden fury at this. Others are more unusual, concerning the situation at Wycome and the Breach; a few of the hunters and warriors appear to be considering asking permission to join the Inquisition. One, a young man named Syghimye, muses over Leas' heroism and wonders if his going to the Inquisition might bring them closer together, but Leas does not appear to notice. He is more focused on a much younger man to his left.

"Ah, Anverelan got his _vallaslin_," he says, obviously pleased. "Elgar'nan. A shame I wasn't there to see it."

"A shame?" Solas asks tersely.

Apparently unaware of the shift in tone, Leas prattles on with a smile. "Well, the Keeper is the one who applies the _vallaslin_ in the ritual, and as her First, I've spent years practising the craft. Whole _hours_ spent covering myself, my brother, and my cousins in ink! Good times…" A momentary pause. "All I can say is, Ghilan'nain's and Mythal's are easy, Sylaise's is not, Dirthamen's requires _patience_… you get the picture. Anyway, I practised on Anverelan a lot when we were younger. He's one of my cousins, by the way, one of the few who I have any sort of relationship with. I'm sorry I missed him getting it for real."

Solas narrows his eyes. "You make it sound like a hobby," he says.

Leas chuckles. "True. The children _love_ getting their hands on the ink and painting each other with mock _vallaslin_. My brother and I did it all the time. Deshanna doesn't like it—she's always been a stickler for tradition—but they do it so often that she really can't stop it." He remains entirely oblivious to Solas' mounting anger as he muses and still does even when Solas inhales a sharp breath to calm himself.

_A hobby,_ he growls to himself. _A mockery. I wonder how this Deshanna would feel if she knew what the _vallaslin_ was _traditionally!

Moments later, Leas leaves his cousin's side, and Solas trails after him, distracting himself from his anger by listening into more of the dreams and thoughts that they pass by. Again, there are the mundanities of life in the clan, but this time, he also senses an entirely different theme. _Leas, what's he got himself into—a divine mark—they say he lets them call him the Herald, bloody flat-ear, what's wrong with him—typical, really—the mark is magic, like he needs more magic—too dangerous—we should tell the Keeper, we need a new First, he's too much of a risk—he can't be First and be that nice with the _shemlen_—will he forget us—they'll forget him—too bloody dangerous, his magic would be better off forgotten—_And on and on it goes, intermingled with images in nightmares of Leas as an abomination, Leas without his _vallaslin_, a 'flat-ear' as they say, and Solas scowls again.

"I get the sense your clan doesn't like you very much," he says after a few minutes of this.

Leas chuckles, and his face shows no signs of his being hurt by his clan's disregard. "No, they don't," he says. "I've always been a bit… different from the others. As the First, I was isolated from most, though I had some companionship in the other mages. But then I returned from the Blight, and I had experience of a world and things that most of us could only dream of, and with it came rather… unorthodox opinions. To be sure, my clan interacts more peacefully with humans than most, but even so, we're not that friendly to them, and we cling to the old ways _very_ closely. So when I came back having adopted Andrastianism in addition to following our own gods, and when I started to advocate for building bridges and making friends with the humans, and when I tried to think _critically_ about the old stories and traditions instead of just swallowing them, and when it turned out I was a dreamer, well… most of them didn't like that. I've been a pariah ever since: protected, of course. But disliked."

_Typical,_ Solas thinks bitterly, though his heart warms to Leas as he speaks. He is an anomaly indeed, perhaps even a man after his own heart in some respects. A pity his people are too narrow-minded to appreciate that.

"I understand," he says. "But why would they reject you for being a dreamer? It is a kind of magic that is almost extinct among your people yet was close to universal in the days of Arlathan. I would have thought the Dalish would have been happy that you possessed it."

Leas shrugs, and Solas can tell from the way he's peering into the aravels now that he's not paying a lot of attention. "Some respected me for it, yes," he says. "Keeper Deshanna among them. But we've all heard the stories of the dreamer-abominations, of how most dreamers are too frail of mind to survive possession. Most of my clanmates feared I would be just as weak, would end up possessed, and would slaughter the clan, and hearing of the powers I possessed didn't help matters. They gave me a very wide berth as a result."

"It's been a decade since your abilities manifested," Solas says, hands shaking again. "You've survived all that time. And yet they _still_…?"

"Things can change at a moment's notice," Leas says. "The reason I got caught up in the Blight was that my clan went to Ferelden to give our excess mage children to a clan who had lost all of their mages due to the Keeper becoming an abomination. He had been their Keeper for some fifteen years, I'm told, and he still ended up possessed. Most fear the same will happen to me. Yes, it was as common as water in the days of Arlathan… but it isn't _now_, and I didn't have the training to make use of my abilities, so they're basically useless to my people, and we must all think of the safety of the clan. I won't deny we're very stubborn, but… we are more adaptable than you think, Solas," he adds with a small smile, and Solas sighs.

He considers for a long moment, attempts to consider the position of his clanmates. "I suppose I understand," he says grudgingly, after a while. Dreamer-abominations _are_ exceedingly dangerous, and if his clan didn't have the resources to teach Leas how to use his gifts, then he must concede that their fear of him on this count only makes sense. "I do not agree, but I understand." Perhaps, it occurs to him, he expects too much of the Dalish. But that is a thought for another time.

A brief pause, then Leas comes to a halt. "Here we are," he says, inclining his head towards the closest aravel, one that is a little larger than most of its fellows. "Come in with me, Solas." Just like that, he steps through the wall of the aravel, the phasing apparently no surprise to him, and Solas follows him.

Inside, they find a rather large group of sleeping Dalish, at least twenty in all. Many are redheaded, and the predominant _vallaslin_ seem to be Elgar'nan's, Mythal's, and Andruil's, though Solas also recognises the patterns of Ghilan'nain, Falon'Din, and June. Looking at Leas, he sees the man visibly relax, a small smile crossing his face. "_Babae_'s side of the family," he says by way of explanation. "_Mamae_'s have another aravel to themselves. We're quite sprawling as Dalish families go."

"Indeed," Solas says, looking around. "You must have many cousins."

"Nearly a dozen and a growing pile of first cousins once removed," Leas says. "I'm here for closer relatives, however." With that, he starts to tread carefully through what little open space there is, and Solas follows him; as he does, he notes that though it seems a crowded mess, there are gaps between different groups of the Dalish, and each group has both elders, adults, and children within it. Individual families within the larger whole, that much is plain. Thus, it does not take long for him to realise that the final group, at the other end of the aravel, comprising two very elderly Dalish, a man and a woman with greying hair and similarly stern expressions even in sleep, who face away from each other, a young man whose hair, _vallaslin_, and lack of scars are the only things that differentiate him from Leas, and a brown-haired child with a soft face who shifts uneasily in his sleep, are Leas' most immediate family members. That their thoughts are predominantly occupied with Leas, filled with anxiety and fear for him—and extreme guilt, in the case of his brother—_I should have been there, I should have come along, what's he going to do without me, I can't let this happen to him, not again_—is further confirmation.

"My parents, paternal grandparents, brother, and my son," Leas says, and he kneels between the latter two, observing them closely. Solas spares the brother a brief look, notes Falon'Din's _vallaslin_ and how even now he has the mien of a fierce warrior, but he devotes most of his attention to the child. The boy must be about ten years old—older than he expected, considering his father is only twenty-five—and his hair is soft and messy, and his mouth twists into a frightened grimace, and that is all Solas can see before he has to tear his eyes away.

He had known Leas had a child, but to see the boy now… _What sort of life will he have now that this mark has been given to his father?_ Gut clenching and compressing, Solas focuses on the boy's surface thoughts almost to the exclusion of all else.

_Where is he—is he all right—too many _shemlen_, is he okay, will he be okay—Creators, please, let him be okay—I'll be good, I won't ever ask for sweets again—please please please—I want him home, maybe he can tell me what this—woke up last night and the wood was freezing—don't get it—please let him be okay, don't let the _shemlen_ eat him, please—_

What follows is an increasingly distorted series of images, all of Leas—not as an abomination this time, but as the victim of humans: hanged, beaten to death, stripped naked and left to die in the cold, any number of horrible fates. Interweaved with these visions are equally fantastical depictions of Arlathan, the Dales, and the alienages, with humans as demons wearing human faces, chasing the elves down, killing them, chaining them, beating them, and Solas looks away from the moment to see the boy shifting even more uneasily. A soft whimper leaves his mouth. _They must be teaching him of the fall of Arlathan and the Dales,_ he thinks, and he glances at Leas.

Leas, however, is also watching. "A nightmare," he says, looking resigned. "He has always been prone to…" He sighs. "I knew learning our history would do this to him. Solas, is there anything…?"

A pause. Solas weighs up his options, then grimaces slightly. "I hate to take advantage, but yes," he says. "You can shape his dreams, give him something more pleasant. You see how his thoughts appear to be swirling around him, like all the others?"

Leas looks back down at his son and nods.

"Take them in your hand," Solas says. "Normally, I would tell you to enter his mind, but with the mark, I suspect that will not be necessary. Try to take them, and keep your mind blank while you do so." Leas frowns, evidently confused, but after a moment, he lifts his hands and presses them to the spinning images. The boy shifts again, with another whimper, but though Leas startles, he does not let go.

"Now what?"

"Think of a memory. Something pleasant. With the aid of the mark, you will… press it into his mind." Leas glances at him, frowning, and Solas shrugs. "It is difficult to explain. Think of a memory, focus on it as you did on the boundary, _will_ yourself to direct it to his mind, and it will go."

Slowly, Leas nods, and his shoulders hunch as he concentrates on a memory. Solas, meanwhile, sits in what little space there is available and observes. After a few moments, he sees the images start to flicker around Leas, too indistinct to be described. "Keep focusing," he says. "They must be clear, or they will not last." Leas nods again and furrows his brow in concentration, and gradually—though it backslides often and at one point almost disappears entirely—the images become more and more detailed until Solas can make out a scene of a younger, unbranded Leas holding a toddler in his lap and singing to him.

"There," he says. "Now transfer it. Hold onto the boy's nightmare and open your mind. Try to think like him: to recall some of his terror. It will aid the process. And do not try too hard—his mind is malleable, and he is no trained mage. It will not take much effort to get this into his head."

This time, the silence is longer, and Solas watches as Leas attempts to open up both his and the boy's mind. Ever so slowly as before, the scene flickers through, chasing some of the nightmare away, and the boy's muscles relax for a moment, but just as quickly, it fails, and the previous images return. A second attempt is made, then a third, but both fall short; ultimately, Solas shakes his head and also presses his hands to both the boy's nightmare and Leas' memory. "Let me assist," he says, and he clears his mind, and holds both things tight.

The boy's mental barriers are stronger than he had expected—he is unconscious, of course, but there is something there that Solas has seen before: an unawakened potential, the capacity to be aware in the Fade. _Ah. The boy is a mage._ But Solas does not linger on this thought, nor does he say anything to Leas—that is no way for him to find out. Instead, he clears his mind again and focuses, easing the barriers aside with as much gentleness as he can. Moments later, the memory slides into the boy's head, and Solas listens with a small smile as the younger Leas sings _Ma Da'len Somniar_. The boy startles for a moment, but then his tension eases at last, and when Solas and Leas pull away, the scene remains.

"Well done," Solas says.

"I thank you for the help," Leas responds with a nod, "but I was hoping I would be able to do that myself."

"You have never shaped anyone's dreams before, remember," Solas tells him. "It will take practice. Besides, the boy's mental barriers were quite strong."

Leas apparently does not catch the implication of this statement. "Interesting," he says, but he is more focused on staring fondly down at the boy. "I would like to keep doing this. He is skittish, Adhlean. Anxious by nature. He must be terrified for me. Hmm. Perhaps I could do this for Iselen, too… approach him in his dreams. That is possible, yes?"

"Indeed, but that will take even more effort than this, at least to begin with," Solas says, "and I believe you have done enough for one night."

Leas' shoulders abruptly sag. "You are probably right," he admits. "It was enough to come here, to see them, and to give Adhlean this much. And if I can come again…" He smiles for a moment, then exhales. "I expect we should be getting back soon."

Solas nods. "You will need sleep," he says, and Leas hums in agreement.

"Of course. Let me just say goodbye," he says, and Solas steps away, insides twisting again. If he could sweat in the Fade, then almost certainly he would.

Leas leans over his son, running his hand over his hair, touching him yet not. "_Siu'era, 'ma'hallain,_" he says soothingly. "_My ne arla melahn'elan. Tel'gela sul'em._" Then he goes to his brother, to his parents, and to his grandparents, and for each of them, he murmurs similar words—words that they cannot hear. Solas supposes he will have to teach him how to enter their dreams; they deserve that comfort, and perhaps it will ease the guilt that's presently trying to choke him. He swallows it down, but only barely.

When Leas has finished, he stands and inclines his head to Solas, and they pass out of the aravel the same way they entered. The younger man looks thoughtful, perhaps even at peace despite everything, and Solas knows better than to question it, to shatter it. He's done more than enough already.

"Come," Leas says after a few moments. "Let's head back." With that, they turn and leave the camp, or its simulacrum, and return to the raw Fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**
> 
> "_De da'rahn"_: "It was a little thing."
> 
> "_Siu'era, 'ma'hallain. My ne arla melahn'elan. Tel'gela sul'em._": "Sweet dreams, my little halla calf. I will be home when I can. Do not fear for me."
> 
> All translations taken from FenxShiral's [Project Elvhen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883).


	4. Nightmares

Solas has long since got used to being surrounded by nightmares.

In the olden days, so long ago even though they still sometimes seem like just yesterday, it was a rare night when he would enter the Fade and not have to witness the nightmares of his followers, all of whom had a tale of some atrocity done to them that haunted them at every step. He had helped them untangle their nightmares if they required it, but still they returned, night after night, hounding them and driving them away from the Fade that should have been like a second home to them. It had given Solas, as if he had needed it, still more reason to bring down the Evanuris: that none of the people might ever experience such nightmares because of their actions again.

In the end, he had awoken to a nightmare of his own design, one that seems never-ending in his lowest moments. But if he'd done anything else or nothing at all, it would have been far worse, no question. No question, but every time he keeps telling himself that, the question of whether it _truly_ would have been is never far behind. It's not one he can answer, and it disquiets him, so, like a coward, he runs away from it. Whether or not it would have been worse is irrelevant in the face of what _is_, what he has done.

And what he has done is irrelevant in the face of his present circumstances, surrounded by almost-Tranquil who dream fitfully and are haunted by the explosion at the Conclave and their own personal traumas in the same way that his followers were haunted by the Evanuris. Walking amongst them, watching for spirits he can converse with who haven't gone mad, Solas observes the fleeting images of their nightmares, and his heart stirs and clenches in his chest. He tries to ignore it, to numb himself to it—he must feel nothing for these people if he is to carry out his task—but he cannot. As ruinous as his actions may have been for the elves—the Dalish are not entirely wrong on that front—he is still not the unfeeling monster they make him out to be. He cares, even for these people, and at this moment, he can't decide if it's a blessing or a curse.

With a shake of his head, he alters his course and speeds his steps, heading towards the boundary of this part of the Fade, with the vague goal in mind that perhaps he will find some spirits in the raw Fade instead. As he nears the border, however, Solas stops outside the door to Leas' little cabin, and though he knows he likely shouldn't, he can't help but peer in this direction.

Needless to say, the things he sees are visible enough to Solas even as he stands outside the cabin. Spotting them, seeing Leas in the grip of a nightmare, he's not surprised; that seems to have been the case almost every single night he's watched the man's dreams over the past few months. It is understandable, Leas being a dreamer and all, and it would not even be depressing were it not for the deranged series of images brought on by something far more profound than the mere influence of demons.

Previously, it was darkspawn and slavers, and werewolves and a bald Keeper driven mad by vengeance, and ghastly images of the darkspawn horde and the cages in the Denerim alienage and other such charming things that Solas has taken care not to look at for too long out of respect for Leas' privacy. They came in any combination the mind could think of, some more nonsensical than others, but all equally disturbing, and they tormented Leas as a matter of course, but Leas said nothing about them and never seem bothered about them while awake, and so Solas did not intervene. Now, however, he sees other things: piles of red lyrium, the Grand Enchanter turning into red lyrium, the Iron Bull and Sera infected with it themselves, a ghoul with a cut throat in Tevinter robes, a magister driven mad by grief, skeletons nailed to walls and scattered over the ground, bloodstains of suspect origin, darkspawn infected with red lyrium (admittedly more than a little disturbing), and far more besides, all merging and swirling around him to form one of the most deranged and _clearest_ nightmares Solas has ever seen. At the centre of it all, Leas whimpers and buries his face in his hands, either unwilling or unable to free himself, and that sight is sufficient for him to decide that enough is enough. If the man cannot untangle his nightmares, he must show him how to do so.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Solas lets his mind go blank and steps through the door of the cabin. He can see Leas prone on the bed in the real world, shifting and stirring and whimpering in his sleep; in the Fade, however, the man stands upright, and he does not appear to notice Solas' presence though he is so close at hand. In his vulnerable state, so caught up in his nightmare as he is, the barriers that normally would have protected him from intrusion are almost down, and Solas has no trouble pressing through and entering his mind. (Just as well, then: what if a demon had found him in this state?)

The moment that he pushes through into Leas' dream and finds himself within it, however, Solas reels back with a startled cry and a shout of, "_Fenedhis!_", and the shock is almost enough to propel him out into the Fade again. Everything around him is so… _real_. Blood and smoke on the wind assault his nose, run up his nostrils and almost choke him; the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth as well and seems to go down his throat, making him retch. Coming from somewhere he can't quite reach is a strange song—the song of red lyrium?—and the want of it, the desire to find it and listen to it and have it fill him from his toes to his crown, is maddening. Just beneath that, the sounds of screaming and crying—villagers, he thinks, innocents—and the growls of darkspawn. The location is a castle, a torture chamber littered with bloodstains and skeletons at tables and red lyrium in the walls, growing out like the worst of fungus. It's all _real_, or so it seems—he can even feel it beneath his toes—and now he sees why Leas is having so much trouble.

Leas looks up at him, but half a moment he does not look like Leas at all, but a boy in ragged clothes, covered in dirt and blood, with twigs in his hair and hollow cheeks and deep shadows under his haunted eyes. "Solas?" he gasps, and he sounds like a boy. Maybe fourteen or fifteen? It matters not. "Where'd you come from—this is a dream, isn't it? It's not _real?_"

Solas swallows thickly and fights to remain calm, harder than he would like to admit. This should not be possible. "Yes, it's a dream, I promise," he says, and he tries to ignore the minute tremble in his voice. It will do Leas no good if he realises that Solas himself is disturbed. Even in the days of Arlathan, he never saw nightmares as vivid as _this_, at least none that he can recall.

_The mark,_ he realises. _We established before that it gives him clearer dreams. It logically follows that it must also give him clearer nightmares,_ and at the thought of this, his gut clenches with guilt. As if the man wasn't suffering enough already…

"I thought so," Leas says, hugging himself tightly and looking away. "You came out of nowhere, and—and I'm always alone in my nightmares…"

"Why is that?" They should not be talking so much, he knows—he should _act_—but he needs to get a grip, to come to terms with the sheer intensity and reality of his surroundings. Once he has calmed himself and adjusted, then he might show Leas how to conquer the dream.

Leas shrugs. "Holdover from the Blight. I was alone for so long… eight weeks at the start, then a fortnight getting from Clan Vaharis to Denerim. Oh, I stayed in villages and chantries too… but never for long… Mostly I was on my own, surviving, running away, trying to…" His breath catches, and he stops, obviously distressed, and around them, the landscape shifts, responding to his thoughts. Now it is no longer a castle, but an open field with the might of the darkspawn horde coming over the horizon, the ground rotting beneath their feet, and somewhere not far off there is a burning village with corpses littering the ground. The stench is so strong that it makes Solas retch again.

"And of course, my abilities don't help," Leas says guiltily, holding his head in his hands. He speaks haltingly. "They make it so much harder… Do you know, this was when they first woke up? I was running from darkspawn, trying to stay alive… I was only _fourteen_… in a foreign land, away from my clan for the first time, trying to avoid darkspawn and templars and hostile humans… and then I went to sleep one night, and there were more demons than I'd ever seen… night after night after _night_… threatening me, trying to claim me… and so many _darkspawn_…" The first tears slip from his eyes while Solas stares at him, attempting to wrap his mind around what he's just heard, totally unable to.

The Blight. Leas' memories of the Blight. He was alone, in a foreign land, surrounded by hostiles on all sides, a solitary Dalish mage—easy prey for anyone—and his powers were awakening… and he was only _fourteen_.

"_Ir abelas,_" Solas breathes. "I cannot _begin_ to imagine…"

Leas lets out a strangled sob as the screams and growls reach their ears again, louder and crueller and more penetrating than ever. "_Mythal'enaste_, it's like I'm right back there again," he whispers. "Ten years back… I've tried to leave it behind me, but it's… even Iselen doesn't know the full story. Can't understand what it was like… those first eight weeks… The nightmares have always been clear, and I've got used to that… But it's never been so vivid as this!" His voice abruptly goes up an octave, and for want of anything else to do, Solas reaches out and puts a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"It's the mark," he says. "It's making your dreams worse."

"I know," Leas moans. "I know. Solas, _sathan_, I beg you! Stop this somehow! It's been like this since Redcliffe—they're so real, it's like I'm there _all over again_—I can hardly sleep—I need—"

Solas tightens his grip on him and pulls at Leas in such a way that the man is forced to look up at him. "I will help you, I promise," he says. "But first, I need you to breathe deeply and try to calm yourself as best you can. Remember: this is _just a dream_."

Not the most comforting words, he knows, but Leas seems to understand what he means. At once, he swallows thickly, and Solas watches as he tries to steady himself, as he takes one deep breath, then another, his eyes flickering shut while he does so. Gradually, he grows still, and his breathing evens out, and when he opens his eyes, the look in them is more focused, though there remains an inevitable trace of fear.

"Just a dream, just a dream," he murmurs, and he swallows again. "What next, Solas? Don't tell me it's a matter of intent—I've been trying to will these away for years, and it's never worked."

Solas grimaces. "It is indeed," he says. "You saw how your surroundings responded to your thoughts, how we went from being in Redcliffe Castle to being in a field. Try to empty your mind, the way you would if you were shaping the dreams of another."

Though Leas seems slightly peeved by his admission, he does as he's bid; his body goes still, and his eyes go blank, and soon he is standing rather like a statue. The effect is almost immediate. Though the deranged images do not disappear, they do go still, and the screaming stops, and the stench of blood and smoke and the Blight and red lyrium stop rushing up Solas' nostrils, and even the ground beneath his feet assumes a certain dreamlike quality where he touches it but does not feel it. This is more like what a dream should be, frozen or not, and at once, he relaxes.

"Excellent," Solas says, and Leas too seems to relax a little. "Now, the basic principle here is the same as it was for when you were shaping your boy's dreams. You can empty your mind completely—that is critical—and _will_ the nightmare into nonexistence, or you can focus on something more pleasant and will it into being. I can help you if you need it, but it may be for the best that you attempt this yourself."

"All right," Leas says slowly. He presses his fingers to his temples and begins to focus, and at once, Solas can see images flickering in the nightmare, perhaps things more pleasant than all the rest. "You know, if it's all a matter of intent, shouldn't it be easier than it is?" he asks after a few moments.

Solas shakes his head. "The Fade is not completely malleable, even to experienced dreamers. Everything takes some willpower and intent, and the slightest distraction can disrupt your plans. In your case, it is only difficult because of your lack of experience, and even then, I'll wager the mark is making things easier."

In response, Leas only nods, and his muscles tighten, and his fingers press more firmly into his temples as he attempts to will more pleasant things into his mind. _I should look away,_ Solas thinks, and he keeps his mind carefully blank otherwise, but he can't help but be curious, and he watches as the images flicker in and out of existence. The boy Adhlean, running with children, playing a game of tag, giggling, helping up another who had fallen into the mud: soft and sweet. His brother Iselen, loud and fierce and proud, walking with him around camp, under the light of many stars, listening to him speak of his magic though he can't truly understand it: a bittersweet memory filled with longing. His parents, firm and strong, sitting at the campfire with him and leading a song. A baby girl who the memory tells him is named _Latharia_, a first cousin once removed, born a month before the Conclave: new life, new hope, new joy. And more: his grandparents, the Keeper, others of his family and the clan, Elior Tabris: powerful and proud and fierce and heroic and _revered_, and a few friendly human hunters and templars and priestesses who Solas sees helped Leas during the Blight, and many of the Inquisition, and even—this pulls him up short—the Tevinter mage.

"Dorian?" he says before he can stop himself; the images disappear at once. "He's only a stranger."

Leas narrows his eyes at him, unsurprisingly. "Nothing's worse than being alone. He's a stranger who saved my life," he says, and Solas understands, drops the matter, and refrains from pointing out the blush staining Leas' cheeks.

So it goes, on and on, Leas struggling to pull his memories into his dreams while Solas watches patiently, admiring his progress. Already, the man has come quite far. A few months ago, he could not Fade-walk or shape his own dreams in such a manner, but now he is trying, and he is even now building an image of the fire at his clan's camp, and it is pleasing to see, the more so after the horror that was his nightmare. He observes, and here and there he espies where Leas could improve, but he says nothing, not wishing to distract him. Piece by piece, gradually, Leas reconstructs the memory, and the bloodstains and skeletons and the Blight and the burned village and the darkspawn all vanish into a distant corner of his mind, and a forest seems to spring up around them, followed by the campfire and his clanmates at last, and all associated sounds and smells and other such sensations. At the end, he collapses to his knees and puffs in exhaustion.

Here, Solas allows himself to smile and kneel next to him. "Well done," he says, while Leas runs his hands over his face and groans. "And do not worry. It _will_ get easier with practice."

Leas peers at him through the gaps between his fingers. "I sincerely hope so," he says, still panting, then drops his hands and looks up at the scene he has forged. "So… this is what I am capable of? It seems real, as well… I can even smell the halla shit, hah!" A wide smile breaks out over his face. "A dream from a nightmare…"

"It is only a fraction of what you will be capable of, if you keep practising," Solas says before he can stop himself, and he immediately wants to kick himself for doing so. "There is always more to discover when it comes to the Fade."

"No doubt," Leas says, with a momentary chuckle. He sits back on his knees, observes the scene for a moment, then turns to look at Solas. "For now, I suppose I would like to _discover_ if you know of any potions or herbs that can keep me from entering it. As useful as this would be—and I thank you for it—sometimes, a man just has to _sleep_."

Solas nods in agreement. "I understand. And I do know of some herbs that I can gather for you, in the Hinterlands. The ancient elves used them for the same purpose, and they would keep you asleep for a night. I would advise against using them too often, but you do appear to have need of them."

"True. I don't remember the last time I got a full night's sleep," Leas says, grimacing slightly. "It would be nice not to have to worry about constant nightmares for a change… _'ma serannas_, Solas. For all of it, I mean."

"_Sathem lasa halani,_" Solas says at once. He exhales and, for a moment, bows his head. "I am sorry that you have to endure this, however."

Leas shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. I'm used to the nightmares. Well, I'm not entirely used to how vivid they've become since I gained the mark, but I'm sure I'll adjust to even that in time." That is some small consolation, and Solas nods to acknowledge it. "What about you?" Leas asks. "How do you deal with your nightmares?"

It's Solas' turn to grimace, and he looks away so Leas can't see the expression that comes over his face. "In much the same way that you do, or you will," he says after some thought. "I try to break through them so I can enjoy the Fade. I've had enough practice that it's not especially challenging anymore, though I say that as someone who doesn't carry a mark like yours."

"Fair enough," Leas says, smiling. "I suppose you were hoping to enjoy the Fade tonight?"

"Yes, but I saw you were having a nightmare and decided to help. It seems I made the right choice," he says, with a small smile of his own, and Leas grins.

"You did. Thanks again," he says, and he lies back in the grass and looks up at the sky: dark, cloudless, and full of stars. "But I'll let you get back to it. I didn't mean to take up so much of your time. Next time we're in the Hinterlands, let me know where those herbs can be found, and I'll send some people out to look for them. I suspect I'm not the only one who might benefit from having them."

"Indeed," Solas says with another, grim nod as he gets to his feet. "And those numbers will continue to swell as events go on."

Leas cringes, but he also chuckles weakly. "And on _that_ cheerful note…" he says, and he glances up at Solas. "_Dar'eth shiral._ See you tomorrow."

"_Ethas na,_" Solas says with a bow of his head. "I hope you are well for the rest of the night, _arani_." No lie, this word, though he almost stumbles over it, though he wonders if he can truly afford to call any of these people a friend when he knows they won't survive what's to come. But Leas smiles at him, blue eyes sparkling with delight rather than fear this time, as if he shares in the feeling, and ultimately, Solas opts to quit while he's ahead.

_Arani. Lethal'lin. In other time, another place…_ That thought, and all the regret that comes with it follow him like his shadow as he returns to the Fade and heads into the realms beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**
> 
> _"Sathan"_: Please.  
_"Sathem lasa halani"_: "Pleased to give assistance."  
_"Ethas na"_: "Be safe / Make yourself safe."  
_"Arani"_: "My friend."
> 
> All translations taken from FenxShiral's [Project Elvhen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883).


	5. Death in Dreams

The evening they establish the camp at the fens, Solas finds Leas standing at the edge of it, looking back out into Ghilan'nain's Grove. He leans on his staff, uncharacteristically ignoring the mud and dirt that have accumulated over the day's travel, and there is a distant expression on his unsmiling face, his eyes unfocused and almost blank. Leas has been quiet since they came to the Exalted Plains, almost solemn sometimes, not that Solas can blame him, but now he cannot help but wonder. Has it become too much for him, seeing the land that could have been his home if not for the Chantry?

"_Arani,_" Solas says, and Leas looks at him. He focuses on him, but no smile comes over his face, which remains neutral. "Are you all right? You seem distracted."

"I am fine, Solas, but _'ma serannas_," Leas says, turning his gaze away again. "It's simply… hmm." He trails off for a moment, brow furrowing as if in concentration. Solas sets his staff in the ground and leans into it.

"Is it difficult, being here?" he asks. "Seeing the Chantry 'memorials' and the ruins?"

Leas blows out a long breath and shuts his eyes for a moment. "It is difficult, but I try not to think too much about it beyond offering prayers and wondering what sort of memorials I can have installed for the elves who died," he says. "Tragic though this place is, I'm more concerned about the present moment. The undead and…"

Solas waits.

Finally, Leas exhales and stands up a little straighter. "I believe there is a group of Venatori close by," he says. "I spotted their banner as we approached Ghilan'nain's Grove."

"You said nothing about them then? We could have gone to their camp and got rid of them."

"It was getting into the late afternoon, and we were already tired, even you," Leas says, and Solas inclines his head, acknowledging the point. "I felt we'd already done enough for one day, and I don't believe the Venatori saw us. If they did, they've made no moves to attack us so far. Besides, I… had an idea. I've been giving it some thought."

Solas gives him a curious look. "An idea? Do you care to elaborate?"

Now Leas smiles a wry, even cunning sort of smile, as uncharacteristic of him as his solemnity. "I thought it might be a _surprise_," he says, and Solas raises an eyebrow, not liking his tone. In this case, 'surprise' can only mean something exceedingly dangerous. Leas seems confident enough about it, but the man is not always the most cautious in the world, so that is not especially reassuring. "One that will need to wait until we're asleep."

That catches his attention. "Something in the Fade? What are you going to do, _arani_?" A hint of alarm creeps into his voice, though he remains otherwise calm.

Leas grins at him. "You'll see. You'll be there to haul my arse out of the fire if something should go wrong. So will Dorian, but he's no dreamer. Trust me, Solas. I'm not going to do anything _too_ dangerous, I shouldn't think."

Solas stares at him for a moment, trying to understand what he means, but he ultimately gives up and nods. "As you say. If you have learnt something new, I suppose I _would_ be interested in seeing it," he concedes.

"Exactly," Leas says, grin only widening. "Now go on. I'll see you tonight." He walks off to speak to Dorian, laying out his robes to dry and grumbling while he does so, and Solas observes him for a few moments more before walking away and heading back to the campfire to read one of the books he picked up over the course of the day's travels. Now and then, his thoughts wander back to whatever it is Leas has planned, but he tries not to worry: the man has become skilled enough over the past months and should be capable of handling himself.

He is, perhaps, a little _too_ skilled for Solas' comfort… but that is a concern for another time.

* * *

That night, Solas finds himself awake in the Fade, as usual, this time in a simulacrum of the camp. Usually, he would take a moment to adjust before wandering off to seek those regions of the Fade he has not explored yet or to speak with his spirit friends. This time, however, he waits, partly eager to see what Leas has planned but increasingly uneasy, despite his best efforts, as to _what_ it is. What if he should overextend himself or attract the attention of demons, or worse? What if he and Dorian will not be able to rescue him?

As he waits, the doubts grow ever louder. Thankfully, however, he does not have to wait long before Leas appears, followed shortly by Dorian, who inevitably takes a little longer to come to grips with his surroundings than the both of them. (Very convenient that they all should have appeared in the same place at roughly the same time, but Solas can only suppose that Leas gave Dorian some lyrium to facilitate his entrance to the Fade.) When he has adjusted, he approaches them, narrows his eyes, and observes them for a long moment before pulling back, apparently satisfied that they are not demons.

"This is a first," he says. "Meeting fellow mages in the Fade itself for a mysterious expedition. Whatever next, oh Lord Inquisitor?" As he speaks, he raises an eyebrow at Leas, who grins at him, the expression and the way he holds himself—hands behind his back, his chest puffed up, his shoulders held back—all screaming self-confidence much like Dorian's own. Seeing it, Solas can't help but roll his eyes. The two are so much alike—small wonder they like each other.

"What's next, hopefully, is that you get to watch me do something in the Fade that's only known of in stories," Leas tells him, tipping his head back while maintaining eye contact with Dorian, his grin sly and proud. "Key word being _hopefully_. I haven't tried this before. And before you ask, Solas, you _haven't_ taught me how to do this. I saw mention of this in my research and, well, I just _had_ to try."

Solas' eyebrows bounce. "Well, I appreciate your initiative," he says, and that much is true, even as he wonders with ever more alarm just _what_ Leas is trying to do. The old dreamers had many mythical abilities that he could be referring to. "This should be something to see."

"Or it could be a disaster," Leas says, laughing. "Which is why you're both here. In case I need backup."

"How do we know it won't be a disaster for the both of us, as well?" Dorian demands, also raising his eyebrow, and Leas shrugs carelessly. Far too carelessly, if Solas has anything to say about it, but he has learnt from experience that the man is completely incorrigible.

"I'll be the only one trying to _do_ anything," he says. "You two will hang well back and will only jump in if I get into trouble." That explanation seems to only barely satisfy Dorian, but the man nods and asks no more questions. "Now, let's get going." With that, Leas turns and heads north, while the pair of them follow a little behind him. They soon reach the boundary of this region of the Fade, and Leas pushes it aside as though it were as natural as breathing—which, it occurs to Solas, it might well be, after months of practice.

That should be no cause for concern; learning and improvement are to be expected. But Leas is stronger than Solas would have liked, has adapted too quickly to the ways of the Fade and the nature of his powers. As with all mages, there is a spectrum of talent for dreaming, and he'd hoped that Leas' decade of inability to do anything with his powers showed weakness on his part. However, the degree of skill and potential for more that he has shown would be noteworthy even in Arlathan, and Solas suspects that this cannot be laid solely at the feet of the Anchor. He is powerful, and yet he is still mostly unlearned, and when the Anchor is gone, he will remain a threat.

Perhaps he should cease the lessons. Leas has enough to do as it is without coming to him on the regular for his studies, and Solas needs to resume work on his plans, anyway. The thought flickers across his mind, but he tramples down on it before Leas can look back and _see_, and afterwards, he keeps his mind carefully blank as they head through the raw Fade, through the simulacrum of Ghilan'nain's Grove, and around the corner to the Venatori encampment.

On the very edge of the camp, Solas spots the resident spellbinder, wandering the Fade and dreaming of his false god. "Solas, conceal us," Leas murmurs, and at once, Solas raises his hands and warps the Fade around them as he has done before, distorting it and turning it into a shroud. Dorian watches with an expression of almost amazed fascination, but Leas is the one to explain. "He's hiding us. That spellbinder won't spot any of us now."

"Useful, to be sure," Dorian says, with a polite nod of acknowledgement in Solas' direction. "What next?"

"Let's enter the camp. I want to map it out," Leas tells him, and though they are concealed, he steps forward carefully, as though trying not to disturb anything in the Fade. Solas follows him, and Dorian almost at his side; the other man says nothing, but Solas can tell from the way he glances around all the time as if searching for demons, that he is wary. But they pass in silence, and soon, they arrive in the camp.

There is not much to look at, only the wandering spellbinder, two marksmen, a solitary brute, and a handful of zealots, plus their equipment and tents. They walk among them for a time, and Solas peers in interest at their dreams and thoughts—mostly of Corypheus and a Tevinter empowered and triumphant, but some of their families and others of a Tevinter cleansed of corruption and made glorious, a somewhat more tragic dream. "Can you see these, Dorian?" Leas asks though he should know the answer. "Their dreams and thoughts?"

"_See_—no!" Dorian says at once, staring at Leas as though he's lost his senses. "I'm no _somniari_. Why would I see them?"

Leas shrugs and chuckles. "I just thought I'd ask. You're missing out," he says, cheerful. "There's so much I can only begin to conceive of being able to do…"

"So, what are you planning to do now?" Solas asks, and Leas comes to a halt at the head of one of the marksmen.

For a few moments, there is silence as Leas apparently examines the marksman and pats at his belt, as if checking for his dagger. Then he swallows and looks up. "I'm going to enter his dreams."

This is not much of a surprise to Solas beyond his wondering why the man intends to do that with an enemy. Dorian, however, blurts out, "What, you're capable of that?"

Leas nods and shoots Solas a grateful look before shifting his gaze to Dorian. "Solas has allowed me into his dreams many times over the past months, for educational purposes," he says, with a sudden grin. Dorian abruptly raises his brows, no doubt intrigued, and Solas rolls his eyes but resists the childish urge to tell them to _work this out_ already. "I don't need his help with entering anymore, so I think this should be simple enough."

"And when you're in his dreams? What do you intend to do then?"

Another wry smile crosses Leas' face, and he glances meaningfully at Solas, as though he's sharing an inside joke with him. At the same time, however, his eye twitches, and his smile trembles a little, with just the barest hint of doubt and disquiet. "I'm going to kill him. In his dreams."

_Ah._

Dorian stares at Leas for a long moment, and Solas watches as comprehension dawns on his face too. "And when you do that, he'll die in the real world, too," he muses. "Yes, I've heard of that. The dreamer magisters in Tevinter were infamous for using such tactics against their rivals. No surprise coming from _them_, but from you? I'd have thought you would have preferred a straight-up fight."

"I needed to see if I could do this," Leas says. He glances at Solas again and continues speaking. His tone is placid, but there is an undercurrent of something else there, a certain lack of confidence that flies in the face of his previous attitude. "You've taught me much, _hahren_, and I thank you for it most sincerely. But there are things I need to work out for myself, and in my position, as I've said before, I can't really use my abilities for the pursuit of knowledge. Better to hone them into a weapon… and in the present circumstances, what better weapon than the ability to strike at my enemies in their dreams, killing one or two and terrorising the rest?"

Solas can feel his eyes widening, and out of the corner of them, he can see that Dorian is equally taken aback. _Well, then. His tone is full of doubt, but I suppose he might have fit in at the court of Arlathan after all._

"Spoken like a true magister," Dorian says, but rather than take offence, Leas only chuckles and rubs the back of his neck, blushing faintly. "_Fasta vass._ Not that they don't deserve it, but what _exactly_ are you going to do to these people?"

"I played with ideas for a time. I considered picking them off one by one, striking at random every few nights—the psychological impact alone would be undeniable," he says, and his tone remains placid, with that same undercurrent of doubt. Still, it sends a chill up Solas' spine. _Fenedhis_, how often did he see in the nobles of Arlathan such terrible serenity while contemplating atrocities? "But I don't think I'll do that. It's cruel, and impractical to boot. You needn't look so pale, Solas, it was just a passing fancy."

Solas nods and tries to trample down on his alarm. "_Ir abelas._ Continue."

Leas rests a hand on his hip and leans into it, a more thoughtful expression coming over his face, though the faint grimace twisting his mouth shows his doubts are coming to the surface. "I thought of nightmares. I've been back to visit my clan many times, and as many times I've weaved dreams for Adhlean. Not that he knows yet—I suppose I must tell him… Anyway, I'm getting good at dream-weaving. It follows that I should be good at weaving nightmares. I found in my research that some dreamers could manipulate people into killing each other by giving them horrible nightmares featuring their fellows. That's something I want to try. But not this time, I think. This time, I'll kill one of them, or maybe two. Then we go back in the morning, while the others are wondering why their friends apparently just _dropped dead_, we catch them by surprise, and we kill them all."

More shivers run down Solas' spine, even though the plan is logistically sound. That Leas seems bothered by what he's contemplating hardly helps matters—how can _he_ of all people have come up with such an idea? "I applaud your practicality," he says, "but you almost seem to forget that you are killing _people_." In the grand scheme of things, the hypocrisy of his statement is breathtaking, but the point still stands, especially given Leas' usual respect for life.

Leas looks at him, grimacing outright now, and he says, "Trust me, Solas, I have _not_ forgotten. I know this is an ugly way to die, and I still regret there is no reasoning with these people. But it is no uglier than being barbecued to death or electrocuted or any number of the things that _ordinary_ mages can do, and surely _you_ of all people can see the practical side of this. If I can sneak into our enemies' camps in the Fade and take out their commanders, or those who might pose the most trouble, before we all have to go in, well…" He raises a pointed eyebrow at Solas, and Solas exhales and nods.

"I am aware. You just seemed rather… too interested in this, is all I am saying."

"It's as much an intellectual exercise as anything else," Leas admits. "I just want to see if I _can_ do it. If I can, I'll be praying to Falon'Din and the Maker for the man's soul as surely as I would have normally. Besides, I don't intend to make a habit of it," he adds, and he gives Solas his patented kicked puppy look, and Solas allows himself a moment to listen to the man's surface thoughts.

There _is_ regret there, disquietude—stronger in his mind than it is in his words. Beneath even that, there is a hint of worry about his interest, some concern that this is too uncharacteristic of him, and what if he is losing himself to his abilities? _Lost enough of myself to my title and my gifts—can't lose more. This seems too easy, easy to fall into because it is easy. I do not wish to become a cold-blooded killer because I can kill people while they are helpless in their dreams,_ and though Solas cannot read more because the man's mental barriers are very strong and he seems to have a vested interest in nobody getting too deep into his head, still, he is satisfied.

"Fair enough," he says, and he glances at Dorian, who still seems uneasy but also relaxes when Leas turns his gaze on him. The man's muscles loosen, and he inclines his head slowly.

After a moment, he says, "_This_ should be interesting. But—a word of advice? Perhaps say nothing of this to Sera or Cassandra. Possibly Bull as well. I can't imagine they'll take this well _at all_."

Leas chuckles again. "Absolutely not. Sera almost ran away from me when she learnt of my abilities. I had to do some very quick talking to reassure her, and there's a reason she insists on sleeping on the other side of camp from me. She, at least, doesn't need to know about this. Cassandra and Bull might be more open to the idea, but… not just yet, you're right." After a moment, he adds, "Of course, this is assuming I _can_ pull this off. Well, no point standing around. I might as well get to it. Dorian, if I disappear, don't be alarmed. I'll just be… in his head."

Dorian laughs. "_There's_ a sentence you don't hear every day," he says, and he steps up to Solas' side as he speaks. Solas senses that his alarm has more or less disappeared and been replaced by pure curiosity, even fascination. Well, whatever the man might be, he will at least give him credit for being open-minded.

After months of practice and instruction, Leas needs no reminders from Solas to clear his mind and focus, or at least, that is what Solas assumes. He reaches behind and pulls out his dagger, a simple thing of Dalish make, then he kneels at the head of the marksman. He lays his hands on the man's fitful dreams, screws his eyes shut in concentration, and for a few moments, there is nothing more. Then, the dream _distorts_, shifts and expands almost, enveloping Leas within it until he too is nothing more than a gauzy image within it, here one second and gone the next. Beside him, Dorian's eyes go wide for a moment, but he recovers himself soon enough.

"What are you seeing?" he murmurs to Solas.

"Not much. He _is_ in the man's dream, and I can see him… moving, sneaking behind the man… but without entering myself, I cannot make out much more than that." Dorian nods and falls silent, evidently realising that this venture is likely to be rather dull for him, and Solas wonders for half a moment why Leas brought him along in the first place before it occurs to him that the younger man was probably hoping to _impress_ him.

He shakes his head. _Fenedhis. The man is besotted._ But there's nothing he can do about that, so he relaxes his posture and concentrates on observing the dreams of the unfortunate marksman.

This one—his name is Valerianus—dreams of Corypheus, like most of the others. In his mind, the magisters of Tevinter kneel before their Elder One, and all the people of the world, from Par Vollen to the lowest reaches of the Korcari Wilds and the Dales, kneel before them, and Tevinter stands triumphant, eternal, and restored. _A world that once was and will never be again, though they try,_ Solas thinks, and an image of Arlathan flickers through his mind, and his guts begin to churn and twist.

Where is the difference?

_With Arlathan restored, and the Veil destroyed, the elves will be freed. With Tevinter reborn, _no one_ will be freed._ But still the question dogs him no matter how much he focuses, and even the sight of Leas appearing just behind Valerianus in his dream is not sufficient distraction, though it is welcome.

Still, he is only observing it from the outside, and so it becomes increasingly difficult to make out what is happening, though what little he can make out suggests to Solas that Leas is attempting to find the most efficient and the quietest way to kill the man. _Do not tarry. The man may not be dreaming lucidly, but he will notice you if you delay too long._

Moments later, however, the marksman's back arches, and he lets out a quiet gasp that attracts the notice of the solitary guard stationed nearby. As quickly, however, he falls back to the ground, and his gasp is so otherwise nondescript that the guard soon turns his head away, no doubt presuming his fellow to be having some sort of dream and guessing far nearer to the truth than he could ever have imagined. Dorian leans forward, and Solas nods to himself as the man's breathing slows, then stops entirely, and as the blood drains from his face.

Shortly after, Leas reappears, holding his spirit blade in his hand. He stands up, sheathing the blade, stares down at Valerianus for a moment, then shifts his gaze to Dorian and Solas.

"Well done," Solas says, and he means it. "It appears you have also avoided attracting any attention."

"Just like out of the stories, and not a scratch on him," Dorian muses. "_Impressive_, Inquisitor. Perhaps you might try again on another one of these cretins?" He eyes the brute, in particular, his maul, and what he is thinking is obvious, not that Solas can blame him. He does not relish coming up against warriors wielding such weapons, either.

But Leas only shakes his head. "No, one's enough," he says, and his voice is firm. "This one here, Valerianus, he wasn't scheduled to be on watch tonight. That's why I chose him. If I kill any of the others, we'll lose the element of surprise for the morning. And, well…" He shifts on his feet, eyes darting left and right while he plays with his hair. "It was almost _too easy_. Too easy to go in, catch him unawares, and kill him. I know they probably deserve it, but I don't want killing to be _that_ simple. I fear I might become… desensitised, if it was."

Solas exhales in relief—there, at last, is the concern he was looking for earlier; no need to read the man's surface thoughts to find it. Dorian, however, raises an eyebrow. "The day you become desensitised to killing is the day your bleeding heart freezes over," he says.

"It's a slippery slope, much like hatred," Leas counters. "Thus, I'd prefer to avoid it. How many _somniari_ before me, I wonder, found it so easy to kill men in their dreams, got addicted to it, and soon lost sight of what they were doing and the weight of it? I will _not_ fall into that. _Tualanen lanasta em_, I killed this man for an intellectual exercise. It had to be done, but I'd much prefer _not_ to do it again." He bows his head and murmurs a prayer, and while he does so, Solas shakes his head, unsure whether to tell the man to harden himself or to encourage his softness, for the world would be so much better—more redeemable—if people were willing to remain soft and kind despite everything. Next to him, he sees Dorian looks equally torn.

"This still has a practical side," Solas reminds him after a moment. "It can be used to the Inquisition's advantage."

"I know, and I won't shy away from using it where appropriate. To take out commanders and the like. I just… never thought I'd be _assassinating_ people, you know? Especially not in such an _insidious_ manner. It feels… wrong."

Dorian goes and puts a hand on Leas' shoulder, and to Solas' eyes, the action seems almost instinctual. Interesting, but ultimately irrelevant. "What about weaving nightmares and the other possibilities you mentioned? Will you still be trying those?"

Leas exhales, seeming to lean into Dorian's touch, but he keeps his eyes averted and now tugs at his ears in his unease. "I will, if only to find out if I _can_ do them. Which I probably can. But again, I have no intention of making a habit of it. I know I need this to be a weapon, but psychologically tormenting people like that… it sits no better with me."

"Hold on to that feeling," Dorian urges him. "Better you remain troubled than become a mass-murdering, power-hungry maniac."

"I agree," Solas says. "You have great power, _arani_. It is good to keep the weight and cost of it in mind even if it eats at you. I have seen what happens when people forget those things… The results are never pretty." In a roundabout way, his own actions could be traced to the Evanuris forgetting the weight and cost of their power—if they ever knew it in the first place—just as so many other problems in this world can be traced to the magisters, the Chantry, and the nobles of Orlais doing much the same thing. That Leas remains so troubled is… gladdening, even if it does nothing to change those who have already forgotten.

"Power corrupts," Leas says with an exhausted nod. "It would corrupt the Dalish as easily as it corrupts the humans, not that this is no reason for us not to have _any_ power. But that is neither here nor there." He shrugs, rubs his eyes, stares down at Valerianus for a few moments more, then steps around him and rejoins them. "Come. Let's go. We'll have to be up early tomorrow if we're to catch the rest of these Venatori by surprise."

They head back out of the camp and around the corner to Ghilan'nain's Grove again. "An interesting venture, Inquisitor," Dorian says. "Thank you. We should try this again sometime," he adds, and he winks. Solas rolls his eyes again.

Leas chuckles faintly and rubs the back of his neck, blushing. "I'll see what I can do," he says, then he looks at Solas. "_Ma serannas, tas, hahren._"

"_De da'rahn,_" Solas replies at once. "You have come far, and in such a short time. It is a pleasure to see." The lie rolls easily off his tongue, and Leas grins, suspecting nothing—as he always does. Short of anti-elven propaganda, the man would believe just about anything that's fed to him, even if it's by an Orlesian noble, Solas wagers. He sees so clearly, but he trusts so blindly, and Solas' heart almost aches for it.

"_And_ there's so much more to find out," Leas says, smiling more widely this time. "I suspect I would never uncover it all even if I spent the rest of my life doing nothing _but_ searching."

"That much is true, but do not let that discourage you," Solas says, chuckling as well and trying to ignore the churning of his stomach. "The gift should not be lost."

"Agreed. Dorian, do you have any Tevinter resources on the dreamers back at Skyhold?"

Dorian considers for a moment. "Nothing that immediately comes to mind. When we get back, I'll go through the most promising texts, though I can't promise I'll find anything that'll tell you something you don't already know. _Somniari_ have mostly died out among us, too—the only two I know of are Aurelian Titus and some magister's son. Titus came to a messy end, as you do, and the other one is kept shut up in his parents' estate day in and day out because he's a haemophiliac and wouldn't last five seconds in the company of his fellow high-born. Altogether, a shadow of what they were in the days of old Tevinter, like so much else."

"Like so much else," Leas says. "I _almost_ can't blame the Venatori for wanting a restoration. Key word being _almost_."

"Quite. No point in going back to a dead world," Dorian agrees as they enter the simulacrum of the camp again, and Solas' mouth twists, but whether it is with guilt or bitter amusement and irony, even he isn't entirely sure.

At the entrance to the camp, he says his goodbyes and lets them leave, and then he turns and heads back into the raw Fade, in search of spirits who might advise him. Perhaps he might find Wisdom, hear what she has to say about the path he has taken with Leas. The man has become too powerful, too quickly, and all Solas can foolishly do is _encourage_ him even as he knows that all he is accomplishing is making him even more of a threat. He should stop this—he must—but as much as he does not want Leas to become over-powerful, as little can he endure that the knowledge of dreaming should be lost. _Fenedhis_, if only Leas were not the Inquisitor, then his newfound ability to kill people in their dreams and the possibility that he can weave nightmares for them and manipulate them into killing each other via the Fade would not be so worrying. His brother Iselen would be a very poor substitute—the man is a prat, everything Solas hates about the Dalish, someone who always seems two seconds away from calling him a bare-faced flat-ear and who condescendingly tolerates him only because he is Leas' instructor and knows much of elven lore—but at least he would not be so much of a threat.

He is distracted from the thought, however, by a cry that echoes across the Exalted Plains.

Wisdom's cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**
> 
> _"Tualanen lanasta em."_: "Creators forgive me."  
_"'Ma serannas, tas, hahren."_: "Thank you, as well, elder."  
_"De da'rahn."_: "It was a little thing."
> 
> All translations taken from FenxShiral's [Project Elvhen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7825850).


	6. Pride and Foolishness

Nearly a fortnight after Adamant, as they trudge through the vast, empty spaces of the Hissing Wastes in search of the Venatori, Solas considers another facet of the Grey Wardens and glances at Varric. Blackwall is there, and Leas too, but both care so deeply for the Wardens that Solas knows they will not be reliable sources. Varric, far more realistic, will have more to offer in this scenario.

"The Grey Wardens allow elves and dwarves into their ranks?" he asks. It is a foolish question, admittedly: he has heard of Garahel and Elior Tabris, and in a cave in the Western Approach, they found a list of dwarves who were Wardens, 'Paragons among Wardens'. Still, while Elior Tabris was a mere eleven years ago, things could well have changed since that time. There might have been backlash enough against elven heroes for the Wardens to bar them from their ranks. It is not so implausible.

"Qunari too, I imagine," Varric says. "They don't care about titles or blood, just stopping the Blight."

Confirmation of what Solas had suspected, though he can imagine a Qunari brute being a Warden even less than he can imagine a dwarf or an elf being one. Then again, being one of them would surely befit the savagery of the Qunari, would it not? Not that having Qunari in the ranks would improve the Wardens any—worsen them, actually. "A pity they do it so badly, then," he says, and he sniffs.

On the other side of Varric, Blackwall stiffens. "Would you care to repeat that?" he almost growls.

Typical. Blackwall is a decent man, but the Wardens always become so defensive when criticised. In that sense, they are as predictable as the tides. "Argue if you like," Solas tells him. "Your fight against the darkspawn is noble, but what progress have you made?"

"_Progress_—" Leas begins to say, but Varric interrupts.

"Give them some credit," he says. "It's not like you can study the Blight safely. I may not like everything they've done, but without the Wardens, we'd all be tainted by now."

That much is true, though Solas can't help but wonder if this world would be any better or worse if it were tainted. It is all a shadow of what it once was, regardless. "They've bought us some time, I will grant them that," he concedes stiffly. Blackwall does not, however, seem appeased by this, and in the front, Leas comes to a halt.

He turns back, and under the cowl, Solas can see the look of incredulity on his face. He sighs and braces himself. "Bought us some time? Is that all the credit you will give them?" Leas asks.

"Yes, for that is all they deserve, and I am being mildly generous," Solas says.

"You do them a disservice," is Leas' immediate response, while Blackwall nods and glares at Solas. "They are heroes. They deserve far more praise than this."

Solas shakes his head. Perhaps it is the cold and the emptiness of the Wastes, but something makes him less inclined than usual to argue. "Your admiration of the Wardens blinds you to their faults, _arani_. The same is true for you as well, Blackwall," he says.

Leas rests his hand on his hip and leans into it. When he talks, his voice is firm. "I am no longer so blind. What the Wardens did at Adamant was terrible, yes. But they suffered the consequences and are now rebuilding. Those who survived proved quite amenable to the concept of change. Is that not to their credit?"

"Not when the problems with the Order go to its very foundations. What does it matter if they are no longer so reckless after this, if they set rules for themselves and how they deal with the Blight? Their methods of handling it will still be crude, primitive, ignorant. They will still be fools, groping about in the dark, tampering with forces beyond their ken, beyond what they will understand."

"Is that all you have to say for us saving the world five times?" Blackwall snaps, while Leas himself also stiffens. "Your gratitude warms the very cockles of my heart."

Solas glares back at him. "You have hardly saved it beyond buying it more time. That can no more be classed as 'salvation' than briefly extending the life of a sick patient who is still doomed to die. In truth, it may be worse. Killing the Old Gods could cause more problems than you can imagine. Greater problems, indeed, than even the Blight."

"You keep saying that, Solas," Leas says, and his voice is uncharacteristically hard. "But you never provide any evidence for your claims. The Wardens are always searching for new information about the Blight and the darkspawn. I do not doubt they would welcome whatever you could tell them, provided you possess the evidence to back it up."

"Would they?" Solas remarks bitterly. "Or would they react the same way most Dalish would: ignoring everything that does not agree with their preconceptions, shutting down those who offer new ideas, because they feel safe in their foolishness and cannot imagine that their way is not the right way?"

Even from here, Solas can see Leas' jaw clenching, and his golden armour glints as he folds his arms. "Oh, here we go…" Varric mutters, burying his face in his hands.

Leas steps closer to Solas. This time, when he speaks, his voice is low, but far from soothing, far from friendly. "You judge too quickly, Solas," he says. "You assume their reactions _for_ them, refuse to even _try_ because you cannot imagine they would react any other way than the way _you_ would dictate for them. That goes for both the Wardens and the Dalish. Have we not already discussed this matter, Solas? Did you yourself not admit that you expected more of us than we can achieve?"

Solas lets out another sigh. "You are… correct on this count, I suppose, at least for the Dalish. But what I would expect of the Wardens, they are perfectly capable of achieving."

"So _tell them what they're doing wrong_—"

"They will not listen," he says, well aware he's starting to talk around in circles. "I was wrong to tar the Dalish all with the same brush. But an organisation is a different thing from a people. The Wardens have a proven history of foolish behaviour, of going to extremes even when it was unnecessary. Adamant may be the most recent episode, but it is not the only one, and while the _Orlesian_ Wardens may be open to change, I doubt the same will be true of the others. Do you understand why I do not trust them?"

In the relative dark, Leas' glowing blue eyes flash with the beginnings of anger. "You haven't even given them the _chance_!"

"I have! Several times! They fell short on each occasion!"

Leas shakes his head, baring his teeth slightly. "So you will not even tell them what they are doing wrong because you believe they will not listen. All right, then, tell me. I will listen!"

"You will not," Solas says firmly. "You are too blinded by your idolisation of the Wardens, as they are by their certainty, to comprehend that there may be another way."

For a long moment, Leas stares at him flatly. "So that's it," he says eventually. "You won't tell them or me because you think we're blind… but you'll continue to look down on them for their blindness and me for my well-justified admiration."

"It would not take much for them to see the truth if they could be bothered to put in the effort," Solas says. "And how well-justified _is_ your admiration, exactly? For fools whose only solution to the Blight is savage violence meeting savage violence? They have done very little in the grand scheme of things, Leas, except buy us some time, and as I said before, that is not much at all. If you were more open-minded, I would be happy to share my knowledge with you, but—"

"_Enough, Solas!_" Leas shouts, and Solas jumps and stares at him. Coming from Leas, those words, and the volume in which he speaks them, are entirely unexpected. Before he can respond, Leas strides up to him and all but jabs a finger in his chest, fury kindled in his eyes and every plane of his face. This, too, is so uncharacteristic of Leas that Solas is compelled to remain still. "I will _not_ take this from you! Criticise the Wardens all you like, yes—they are not beyond criticism! No one is! But you have _no right_ to judge the people who have sacrificed life, limb, and _more_ to save us all from the Blights _for_ their method of ending the Blights and then not even bother to say _why_ their method is so poor! It is absurd! Hypocritical, and absurd!"

"I have opened my mind to more than you," Solas says exasperatedly. "I see what you refuse to. I have every right—"

"To criticise, yes. Not to be so smug! You have never even _lived_ the Blight, Solas!"

"I have seen it in the Fade—"

"No! Don't you _dare_ pretend that that is the same! That it is anywhere near the same!" Leas snarls, positively _snarls_—there really is no better word for it. There is such force in his words that Solas takes a step back. His eyes widen, and when he looks into Leas', he sees an echo of what he saw the first time he caught him in a nightmare of Redcliffe Castle and the Blight: remembered trauma and horror beyond description.

Leas stares up at him, gaze fierce and wrathful—words Solas had never thought could apply to him. "You were _safe_ in the Fade, Solas," he says. "Safe, at least, from the darkspawn. _You_ have never been me: fourteen years old, separated from my clan in a foreign country, forced to spend two months running for my life from the only beings in the world whose sole goal is destruction and desecration, forced to take shelter in chantries and hide myself from angry humans and paranoid templars as if I did not have enough to worry about, forced to fight and kill before I was ready! _You_ have never been in—not seen, _been in_—the mass slaughter of whole villages! You have never stepped over the corpses, waded through the blood, trudged over the poisoned ground as it rotted beneath your feet, or thrown up from the stench, which was so much to bear that even the crows got sick of it! You have never known the _terror_ the Blight brought, the despair! You have never lived every day as I have: not so much fearing as _believing_ it would be my last, so consumed with the terror of both the waking hours and the Fade—thanks to all the _demons_ who were attracted to a newly awoken _somniari_—that sometimes only necessity could move me! And you have _never_ seen the Wardens as I have: swooping in like heroes from out of old stories, saving my life and the lives of dozens of others, at least, delivering salvation and succour from both the Blight and the crimes of others! You saw it in the Fade, perhaps, but only as a distant observer: you never really experienced it, and as someone who's survived the Blight, I can assure you, that makes _all_ the difference! You have seen the Blight, Solas, but you do not know it as I do!"

Leas pauses for a moment, cheeks flushed almost as red as his hair, breathing heavily, all but spitting with rage, and Solas is so stunned that he does not even seize the opportunity to speak. He is dimly aware of Blackwall nodding his deep approval off to the side and Varric standing with his mouth agape. "Yet you would _dare_ turn your nose up at them and look down on them for doing such a poor job at ending the Blights while at the same time _lording_ your knowledge over them and refusing to share it with them because you think you know your minds better than they do and believe you have the right to assume their reactions for them! That is, of course, assuming you possess _any_ such knowledge and are not merely looking down on them because surely no one in Thedas who you dislike can be as smart as you! You allow me intelligence and open-mindedness because you _like_ me, but the Wardens—and the Dalish? No, how could they know something you do not? How could they be right?" There, he stops, still breathing heavily, and he glares up at Solas.

Solas collects his nerve now. "That reaction is precisely why I say nothing," he says.

"_Fenedhis_, you haven't even been listening!" Leas snaps, running his hand over his face. "I would be quite open to receiving your knowledge, Solas, and so, I imagine, would the Wardens. If you can back up your accusations with evidence, we would all like to hear it. What I object to is that you refuse to enlighten them even though you possess the means to do so—apparently—and then dare to turn your nose up at them. It is like having the opportunity to teach a child how to read, failing to do so, and then judging them for their illiteracy! I will not stand for it!"

He might, perhaps, not be entirely wrong. But Solas only stiffens. "You would have to if you wish to learn," he says coolly.

Leas shakes his head and stalks off, throwing a hand up in the air. "_Din'el,_" he growls. "If this _arrogance_ is all you can offer, I will not hear anymore of it. You may broach the subject again when you are prepared to _explain_ yourself." Then he walks away, and they stand in silence for a full five seconds before continuing on after him.

"Well," Blackwall says. "Someone finally pissed him off. I didn't even know that was possible."

Solas simply sighs and shakes his head. Much like Leas, he has nothing more to say, not to people who will not learn.

A shame. He had expected more of Leas.

* * *

The next night, before they turn in for the evening, Solas stands outside his tent and observes Leas near the campfire. The man's anger has faded already, though they maintain a silence somewhere between awkward and respectful that they only break when needed. To one only barely acquainted with him, he now looks the same as ever: placid, with a small smile on his face, hair immaculately groomed and armour polished to a perfect shine despite the dreadful environment. (_Fenedhis_, how he hates being around three such impossibly vain mages.) But Solas fancies he can see a hint of something darker in his eyes, and he frowns as Leas puts the herbs in his mouth and chews on them.

That is the seventh time in as many days, and the thirteenth time overall since Adamant. Months ago, Solas had warned Leas against using the herbs too often, and thus far, Leas has heeded his advice. Now, however, he seems to be slipping into abusing them. _No, that is paranoia,_ he thinks. _What happened in the Fade must have been difficult. It is understandable if he is tired of it. All the same, he cannot face his problems by running away from them._

With that thought—and the thought they will need to break this silence eventually—in mind, Solas strides over to Leas and stands next to him as if nothing has happened between them at all. "It has been many nights since I last saw you in the Fade, _arani_," he says, exaggerating for effect. "When are you next planning to enter?"

Leas swallows the herbs, and a grimace crosses his face. "_Tel'eolasan,_" he says. "I'm aware these herbs can be addictive, but what happened at Adamant… I saw rather too much of the Fade. Experienced it in ways I would prefer not to have. I need a break, both from it… and from the nightmares."

"I understand. But you cannot run away from it forever," Solas says, gently.

"I know," Leas concedes, shoulders sagging. "I only wish for a break. Time to process things, unimpeded by nightmares and demons. To answer your question, I suppose I shall be there in a few nights, or whenever we stumble across a Venatori camp, and I've the chance to slay their commanders in their dreams. Not before then."

Solas nods, and for a few moments, they stare into the fire together. Then he glances at Leas out of the corner of his eye and asks, "Was it really so terrible? From what I understand, you recovered your memories while in the Fade. That you survived at all is… probably miraculous."

Leas chuckles weakly. "_Probably?_" he murmurs, and Solas concedes the point with a nod. "But it's true. I was very, very lucky: as I ever am, it seems. First the Blight, then falling through time, then walking in the Fade… Trust me, Solas, I'm well aware of the silver linings here."

"But?"

Another pause, then Leas sighs. "It was simply… _being there_ in itself was excruciating. The more demons we faced, the worse it got. In front of the Nightmare, it was… you can't even imagine. I'm amazed I didn't scream, that I could even _walk_. I could barely think, I was in that much pain. And… the confusion of being there, wondering if we would ever get out, everything I discovered… the loss of Stroud…" His voice trembles. "In many ways, it reminded me of the Blight. It was a horror in every sense. Some… some strange part of me felt a _connection_ to the Fade, as if my being physically there was _natural_—" Solas starts at these words, but Leas does not seem to notice—"but I'll be glad if I never go through anything like that again."

After he has finished speaking, Solas considers his words. For once, he does not need to wrestle with himself over whether or not he should enlighten Leas on that sensation. He will not, cannot—it would be too much for Leas to take, and it would give the game away. Best to offer him no reassurance on that count. "_Ir abelas, lethal'lin,_" he says softly. "I would have liked to have been there, but you should not have had to endure that." He refrains from pointing out that it was the Warden-Commander who got him into that situation in the first place.

"_'Ma serannas,_" Leas says. He closes his eyes for a long moment and blows out a breath, then looks at Solas. "I will be all right, _hahren_. I simply need time to think things through."

"Fair enough. If you need to talk…"

Leas nods and offers Solas a smile, small but genuine. It seems their argument is water under the bridge. "So long as neither of us mentions the Wardens, I guess. But thank you. I know you'll understand, perhaps even more than those who were with me."

Solas chuckles faintly. "I will endeavour to do so," he says, perhaps the only apology that he can offer for what came before. "But I assume that for the moment you wish for some time alone?"

"Yes."

"Then I will see you in the morning. _On nydha. Son era, lethal'lin,_" he says, with a polite bow of his head.

Leas smiles at him. "_Na tas. Nydha, hahren,_" he says, and the hint of darkness that Solas had seen in his eyes before seems to vanish. That is, however, the way of things with Leas: he is always so quick to pull himself together after great shocks and traumas, or, more likely, he is better than most at hiding his grief. If it has served him well, Solas cannot say.

He gives him a small smile of his own then returns to his tent, and shortly after, he is back in the realm that should seem as natural and normal to Leas as it is to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**
> 
> _"Din'el."_: "No more."
> 
> _"Tel'eolasan."_: "I do not know."
> 
> _"On nydha. Son era, lethal'lin."_: "Good night. Sleep well, friend."
> 
> _"Na tas. Nydha, hahren."_: "You too. Night, elder."
> 
> All translations taken from FenxShiral's [Project Elvhen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7825850).


	7. Ena'sal'in

The door to his office flies open.

"Solas!" Leas shouts, running into the room, turning, and skidding to a halt before he can slam into Solas. "Solas, _itha fra'min!_"

Solas takes a quick step back from Leas, brow lifting, as he cleans his paintbrush. Once he has done, he lays it aside, then observes Leas more closely. The man's face is heavily flushed, his breath comes in quick pants, and his eyes are wide and full of wild excitement and joy; a sparkling light seems to dance in them. In his hands, he clutches a letter.

"_Ahn re ra, lethal'lin?_" he asks, unable to keep a small smile from forming on his face. Leas is infinitely cheerful, to be sure, and Solas can count the times he's seen him unhappy on one hand, but there is still something pleasing in seeing him so ecstatic. The intemperance of youth, he supposes: something he grew past long ago but misses now and then. Those were happier days.

Leas holds out the letter. "Read this," he says, grinning broadly, almost literally from ear to ear. Solas takes it and does so.

Almost at once, he sees the reason for Leas' excitement. The missive is from Rozelle Chambreterre, addressed to Cullen, and it concerns the outcome of events at Wycome. Apparently the appearance of the Inquisition's soldiers stopped the Marcher soldiers from attacking the city and slaughtering the elves, and at the subsequent negotiations, helmed by Lady Volant, the evidence of the red lyrium was enough to get them to back down, leave in peace, and pledge donations to the Inquisition's coffers.

More than that, and when he reads this, Solas' eyes go wide: a new city council has been formed in Wycome, containing several human merchants, a city elf, and the Keeper of Leas' clan. As its first act, the council has pledged to rule the city fairly for humans and elves alike.

_Remarkable,_ he thinks, in one foolish moment. _Humans and elves ruling a city on equal footing, the Dalish having a place to stay, humans _backing down_ from slaughtering elves… combined with Briala now ruling through Gaspard and Leas himself as the Inquisitor… it seems too good to be true._

With that, Solas comes crashing back down to earth. Too good to be true? Yes, it is. The humans made the elves a promise once, did they not? Then they stripped them of it in the name of the prophet who had made that very same promise. This is another promise… and promises are so easily broken. How long will it be before the Keeper and the city elf are subordinated to the human merchants, before the goodwill gained in Wycome fades?

Slowly, Solas returns the letter to Leas. "This is a triumph to you," he says.

His lukewarm reaction doesn't seem to deter Leas any. The man only smiles even wider and nods vigorously. "A triumph I'm sorry to have missed," he says. His voice trembles with his joy. "_Re ena'sal'in!_ We _won!_ Even I had feared things might go badly—but we _won!_ And—" He stops, cracking up and doubling up with relieved, triumphant laughter. When he rights himself, he runs a hand through his hair, smiling like a child. "And now Deshanna has a political title, and we can live in the city, and the humans have welcomed us with open arms, and—!"

Leas stops again, pacing in a circle, his grin so broad that Solas thinks it surely must hurt. "This is just—this is _amazing!_" he continues. "We have a home! And political influence and, and more! And with Briala in power and me holding the reins of the Inquisition… imagine it, Solas! The possibilities are endless!"

His joy is so infectious that Solas can't help but smile back at him, even if it is a little sad, even if the Dalish aren't his people, even if he doesn't think this can last. "You think the world is starting to change," he says.

Leas nods. "_Yes,_" he breathes. "It is, it has to be! Things are going well for our people! We're having our share of victories! People are starting to _respect_ us! You know, a little part of me had wondered for a while if all my diplomacy and playing nice would ever pay off, but it _has!_ All right, so it wasn't _my_ diplomacy, but—you know what I mean. Everything I've said about us working together—I was _right!_ Hah!" He speaks so quickly that Solas can barely keep up with him—not that it matters. He can guess the direction of his words easily enough.

_Foolish. Naïve,_ he thinks, as he has so often done. But even so, Leas _is_ correct in that the diplomacy and cooperation at Wycome led to this. Perhaps he should not be so quick to dismiss his joy and this victory as meaningless. If there truly is another way to save the elves… shouldn't that be considered?

Almost at once, however, Solas' mind returns to the same point it raised before. _It will not last. This will be stripped from them. This is a victory in the short term, yes, but the humans will tear it away soon enough. It will be as meaningless as the promise of the Dales, as Cyrion Tabris being named Bann of the Denerim alienage,_ he thinks, and the small flame of hope dies in his chest as quick as it began.

He swallows, considering his words. He doesn't want to rain on Leas' parade like this—the man's joy and relief, not just in the survival of his clan but in the confirmation of his beliefs, are as a candle in the darkest night. But it will do no good for Leas to lose sight of all that stands arrayed against him. He has come far, under Solas' tutelage and elsewhere, and it would be terrible to see him fail before Solas can put his plans into effect.

And after that, too, but he'll consider that another time.

"_Ir sha sul'na, lethal'lin,_" Solas says, almost hesitantly. "_Y ane sule'vi'inast ena'sal'in juros?_"

Leas, to his credit, stops to think his answer over, and his smile fades as he does so; nevertheless, the spark remains strong in his eyes. "You worry it will be taken from us," he says, and Solas nods. He is silent for a little while longer, then he shrugs. "It may be, that is true. I do not deny that possibility. But I do not think goodwill fades so quickly… and the future is out of our hands. Whatever may come, that is no reason not to celebrate now."

"That was not quite what I asked, though I concede the point. I meant, do you truly think this will lead to lasting change? Celebrate as you please, but what happens when the humans turn on your people again? This would not be the first time they have made the elves a promise, after all."

Leas shrugs and resettles his weight, resting a hand on his hip and leaning into it. "I know. But what has happened before need not happen again. Perhaps it _will_… but that's no reason not to try. Sure, this could end in disaster, but it's equally as likely to lead to real change. For me, I believe in the latter."

"And if you fail? What then?" Solas presses, and he wonders who he's asking this question for: Leas or himself.

Leas smiles. "Then I keep trying."

Fenedhis. "And if you keep _failing_? It is foolish to try the same thing over and over, knowing you will only get the same result."

"Then I'm a fool," Leas says with a soft laugh. His eyes sparkle with something different, deeper, as they always do when he starts going on about his ideals. "I will not have any world other than one where we stand on equal footing with the humans but can also live with them in peace, and I will not win such a world through anything other than building bridges and making peace. Such a thing would take generations, sure, but it would be worth it. Perhaps it is naïve of me, but if a new world for us were built on bones and ruins, even if we could live free there… I'm not sure I could abide it myself."

Solas shakes his head and turns away, the guilt wrenching his heart and stomach with enough force that for half a moment it seems they might burst from his chest. "_U'vun'inan da'lath'in,_" he murmurs, and Leas laughs again, louder. "Your idealism is… admirable. I only wish it had some basis in history."

Leas grins and leans against the desk. "'Why change the past when you can own this day?'" he says. "We're here to make history, aren't we? Why can't that history include 'and in this time, the Inquisition _also_ helped uplift the elves and started building the foundation for a lasting peace between them and the humans?'"

Solas exhales, but before he can speak, he remembers his plans. _Wouldn't you like to be wrong? What if there is another way? If the elves can be uplifted…_

Just as quickly, however, he remembers the crucial flaw. _But they will still be a shadow, however equal to the humans they might be. No immortality, no magic, nothing of what made them what they were. Can you abide that? Can you abide the existence of the Veil when they are equal?_

He swallows, knowing the answer already. "Would that satisfy you?" he asks, not meeting Leas' gaze as he speaks. "You know what the ancient elves were. Would peace with the humans be enough for you when your people are still mortal and have none of the magic they once possessed, when all the wonders of their world are gone?"

Leas seems to ponder his answer for a moment, but he still answers very quickly. "It would satisfy me, yes," he says, and Solas' stomach slowly sinks. "The ancient elves are our ancestors, but what is Arlathan to me? It's nothing more than a dead husk of over a thousand years ago, beyond all hope of reclaiming. And even if it were not…" He shrugs. "I'd rather have a new world. A _future_. Going backwards wouldn't help the elves at all, I reckon, any more than our obsession with the past does."

Of course Leas would say something like that. Solas nods and tries not to look too stricken. "What about the immortality and the magic?"

"I'm always up for finding out more about magic and acquiring more magical power, yes," Leas says with a smile. "But I also have quite a lot to hand already. I could be satisfied with what I have. Immortality… Creators, no."

"No?"

"I've put quite a lot of life into the past twelve years, Solas," Leas says. "I've no desire to _die_, but I cannot even fathom the thought of living forever. I think all the sorrows of the world would build up on me, the weariness, and I could have no mortal friends or… lovers…" He pauses, smile dropping, expression finally turning completely serious. "Because I would outlive them all. I could do everything I ever wanted and have all the time in which to do it, and maybe I could use that time to make a real, lasting peace… but I would eventually long for a sleep longer and truer than _uthenera_. As would we all, I reckon. We have been mortal for so long that we cannot comprehend immortality, and if we somehow regained it… I do not think we could cope with it."

A fair enough point, he supposes. Had not a similar weariness afflicted the elves of Arlathan even during their glory days? But even so… "Perhaps not at first," Solas argues, "but with time, you might adjust. Plenty of time, maybe, but time nonetheless."

"Perhaps. But from where I stand now, I cannot comprehend it, nor do I wish to," Leas says. He begins to pace around the room and examine Solas' newest painting. "I am looking to the future, but not that far ahead. For now, I intend to rejoice in this latest victory."

Solas concedes the point with a small smile of his own. "And rejoice you may," he says warmly. "I cannot say I have as much faith as you do… but I hope I am proven wrong, _lethal'lin_. If the world can be changed and the elves uplifted through peaceful ways, if there _is_ peace to be made…" Then it is a world worth saving, a world worth having faith in.

More than that—it is a world that has, somehow, _exceeded_ Elvhenan. Peaceful ways did not change their world even before he formed the Veil. If this world can accomplish that, no matter how long it takes… then he will have to give it its due credit, at the very least.

Leas turns back to him and grins. "There may not be _now_, but just you wait. I'll _make_ it. Sometimes you can make something from nothing, if you're stubborn enough."

Solas chuckles. "I admire your determination," he says, and admiration wars with disbelief, something like heartbreak at his friend's naïveté, and a wistful wondering of what Elvhenan would have been like if there'd been more people like him around. "But don't let me keep you—I sense you wish to spread the good news."

Leas chuckles as well, distinctly apologetic. "That I do. We could all do with a bit of joy. I'll come speak to you again soon," he says. "_Dar'eth_, Solas."

"_Tas na,_" Solas replies immediately. Leas grins at him, that brilliant sparkle coming back into his eyes, and then he turns and races for the steps leading up to the library. Not quite a minute later, Solas hears him excitedly delivering the news to Dorian, who in turn sounds genuinely impressed and rather more confident about the whole matter than Solas himself.

He settles back into his seat with a sigh. _Let me be wrong. Sathan, let me be wrong,_ he thinks, even as he knows that he most likely is not and that regardless of this victory, regardless of what the elves of the modern day feel about it, there can be no turning back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**
> 
> _"Itha fra'min!"_: "Look at this!"
> 
> _"Ahn re ra, lethal'lin?"_: "What is it, my friend?"
> 
> _"Re ena'sal'in!"_: "It's a victory!"
> 
> _"Ir sha sul'na, lethal'lin. Y ane sule'vi'inast ena'sal'in juros?"_: "[I am] very happy for you, my friend. But are you certain this victory will last?"
> 
> _"U'vun'inan da'lath'in."_: "Starry-eyed little heart."
> 
> _"Tas na."_: "You as well."
> 
> _"Sathan."_: "Please."
> 
> All translations taken from FenxShiral's [Project Elvhen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7825850).


	8. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because why should a romanced Lavellan get all the fun with the _vallaslin_?
> 
> Translations at the end.

"Which of the _vallaslin_ do you think you shall want, Adhlean?" Solas hears Leas asking his son as they walk through the library up above, one evening when Dorian is elsewhere, and the place is mostly empty. By instinct, his back stiffens, and his muscles go tight, and though he tries to focus on the notes in front of him, he cannot help but listen in on the conversation above him.

"Aren't I a bit young to be thinking about that, _Babae_?" Adhlean says. "I know I used to get painted with mock _vallaslin_, but I never really _thought_ about…"

"I'm aware," Leas says. "But it never hurts to ponder. _Mar'ba'isa'ma'lin_ _i'ar ely elithem i'melana den uan._"

"_Elvyr sul'na,_" Adhlean protests. "Everyone expected you to get Falon'Din and Dirthamen's."

Leas chuckles faintly, while Solas shakes his head and wonders what would happen if he said that Falon'Din and Dirthamen were, in fact, not twins at all. Not even _brothers_. Oh, the Dalish's collective heads would explode, wouldn't they? Perhaps not Leas', but the rest of his kind…

"True enough, but even so. Well, who do you think you don't want? Is that an easier question?"

A momentary pause. Then Adhlean says, "Not Elgar'nan's, I guess. I don't like that whole 'revenge' shtick… thing he has. Er, no offence to Elgar'nan, _Elgar'nan'enaste_," he adds hastily, and Solas rubs his temple to fight off the oncoming headache. "And not Andruil's or June's. I'm not a hunter or a crafter. Not Falon'Din's, being a 'friend to the dead' isn't for me—"

His father laughs a little louder. "You're taking this rather too literally, _'ma'hallain_."

"But _vallaslin_ honour the gods, right?" Adhlean says. "And we gotta choose who we want to honour the most. So, I mean, they're all _important_, but it's… not for me. Yeah?"

"Yes, of course. Go on." Solas' muscles get more rigid with every word that he hears, but—perhaps because he enjoys torturing himself—he remains in his seat and keeps listening.

Adhlean continues with his musing. "Mythal's could work, but I don't see myself as a protector, really… I mean, I _could_ be one day, depending…" Another pause. "But I don't really want to be. Sylaise and Ghilan'nain's, maybe, but Sylaise's looks _weird_—no offence, _Sylaise'enaste_—and I'm never gonna be a halla keeper. So maybe Dirthamen's, like yours, _Babae_. I know I like learning."

"We could do with more of his _vallaslin_ in the family, it's true," Leas says with another laugh. "Apart from me, only, what, your great-uncle-by-marriage on your _mamaela_'s side, bears it. Most others are content with Elgar'nan, Mythal, Andruil, and Falon'Din, as you're aware."

"_Vin._ But I don't like the idea of having to sit still for so long, _Babae_. It's supposed to be painful. Why can't you scream? There's nothing wrong with a bit of screaming."

A third, more pregnant pause, and Solas clenches his jaw so hard his teeth might shatter. No surprise that they can't scream. The slaves in Arlathan weren't allowed to scream, either. There's a certain irony in the fact that the Dalish got _this_ part right. "It's just tradition, Adhlean, though I agree it's silly," Leas eventually says. "Only reason I didn't scream when I got mine was because I'd already been through so much worse. Your uncle, meanwhile, had his pride to protect. I could ask Deshanna if she'll let me do yours when the time comes… She might not agree, but if she did, would it make it easier to bear?"

"I… guess so," Adhlean says, uncertainly. "But it's so far off, _Babae_."

"Just you wait," Leas tells him, fondness in his voice. "_Melava juiroth i. Nea ishan i'vyn tuemah mar'elithast i've eolasas ra._"

"I'm happy to wait," Adhlean mutters, and Leas chuckles again. The sound of footsteps follows shortly after, and Solas looks up just as they step onto the landing, Adhlean clutching a book to his chest. Somehow, he schools his face into a calm, polite, not at all thunderous expression as they pass by. Adhlean nods and Leas offers him a smile.

"We're heading out for the Cradle tomorrow," he says. "Are you ready?"

"Of course, _lethal'lin_," Solas says. "I will see you in the morning."

Leas smiles a little wider, and they bid each other good evening, then the man and his son head out into the main hall. In the meantime, Solas sits back and keeps rubbing his temple, his insides seizing up and convulsing, rage mastering him. At last, in one instant, he decides that he cannot stand for this. Leas must learn the truth, regardless of how he feels about it. Perhaps it is too late for him, but if Solas can spare _someone_ from the slave markings…

He nods to himself, once, sharply. Yes. That is what he'll do. He'll be doing poor Adhlean a favour, and if he's lucky, his father might react to the news with interest and acceptance rather than rejecting it out of hand. Painful, but he ought to give Leas _some_ kind of truth. The man deserves that much.

_Or perhaps he deserves it all,_ some part of him accuses, and his gut clenches.

By the time Solas goes to bed that night, the tension has not disappeared.

* * *

A few nights out of Skyhold, with the Cradle still nearly two weeks away, Solas finally gets his chance to speak to Leas about the matter. (Or, perhaps, plucks up his nerve enough to make an attempt.) While Cole and Blackwall retreat to their tents, Leas remains by the fire, reading one of the books of elven history Solas had procured for him some time ago. Solas observes him for a moment, then inhales deeply and sits down next to him. "_Lethal'lin,_" he says.

Leas looks up, smiling politely. His smile slips a little as he watches Solas. "_Ea son,_ Solas?" he asks. "You look pale."

"_Vin,_" Solas blurts, and it's not a total lie (though how much of a lie it is, he doesn't care to ponder). "There is simply something that I wish to discuss with you. Would you be amenable to speaking about it now?"

"Yes, of course," Leas responds, and he folds the book shut and lays it aside. "What is it?"

Solas does not immediately answer. Instead, he considers his words and how he can best break the news, so to speak. Finally, he sighs. "I overheard your conversation with Adhlean in the library, the evening before we left for the Cradle," he says. "You were discussing the _vallaslin_ with him." Leas nods slowly, a fond smile coming over his face. Solas braces himself.

"But there is something about the _vallaslin_ I have recently discovered, during my travels in the Fade," he continues, and the lie comes easily from his mouth. "I found out what they mean. I thought you might wish to know. As far off as his decision is, I would hate for your son to make a choice about his _vallaslin_ without knowing all the implications."

Leas' brow furrows, and then he digs into his pack and pulls out a sheet of parchment, his quill, and an inkpot. This is his habit when confronted with things he wishes to note down, so Solas waits patiently, uncertain if this is a good sign. Leas opens the pot and dips the quill in the ink, and then he looks up. "You said implications? I'm not entirely sure I follow. The _vallaslin_ are the symbols of our gods, and they honour them…" He hesitates. "But they are an ancient tradition. Did they mean something different in days gone by?"

"Precisely," Solas says, relieved that Leas seems more curious than anything else. Still, he swallows. "In fact, I am not even certain they mean what you think they mean _today_. They are slave markings, or at least, they were in the time of ancient Arlathan." A pause. "They _are_ symbols, yes. But in Arlathan, a noble would mark his slaves to honour the god he worshipped. After Arlathan fell, the Dalish forgot."

Leas stares at him for a long moment, eyes widening a little and glinting in the dark. Then he looks down and frantically scribbles onto his parchment. "Slave markings? Truly? Arlathan had slaves?"

"That is correct," Solas says. "I wish I could provide you with more evidence than my word, but so much was lost… As it is, from what I have seen, Elvhenan had a very rigid class structure, much like modern Tevinter and Orlais. There were nobles, there were commoners, and there was a significant underclass of slaves, used for tasks most deemed beneath their rank and dignity." As he speaks, he cannot stop the bitterness from leaking into his voice. Old memories flicker through his mind.

Leas continues to scribble, his face betraying nothing of whatever he might be feeling. Solas can't decide whether that's better or worse than what he was expecting. "That…" he finally begins. "If that is true… that is fascinating. And _scandalous_! Our fabled Elvhenan, a land of slavers! _Creators!_" Then, to Solas' astonishment, he laughs. Loudly.

"Do you not believe me, _lethal'lin_?" he asks, furrowing his brow.

"I'm not sure if I do _yet_, but I don't find it hard to believe, if that makes any sense," Leas says once he has stopped laughing. "I always thought Arlathan sounded a bit too good to be true. Even the name—'this place of love'—it's a bit on the nose, isn't it? But that's beside the point. If it had slavers and abusive nobles who committed great crimes in the names of their gods… well, I never thought we were so different from the humans. This just proves it. _Well then._" Leas shakes his head and smiles, seeming surprised but far from stunned.

After a moment, he looks up at Solas. "Wait. You said you witnessed this in the Fade. But you've also told me before that the Fade offers many perspectives on the same events, depending on how the spirits and dreamers perceive it. How can I be sure you are not giving me a biased perspective?"

Solas' heart clenches. Leas strikes nearer to the truth than he could ever dream. "As I said, I wish I could offer you more proof," he says. "I know I often make claims without evidence, and this is only the latest. I can only offer you my word that I consulted many spirits on the matter and watched as many memories relating to the _vallaslin_ as I could. They all painted a rather uniform picture." That, too, is far from a total lie.

Leas nods understandingly. "Fair enough," he says, taking Solas at his word as he always does. Solas' chest constricts a little further. "So… Arlathan had slavers, and the _vallaslin_ were slave markings. Were they always this way? Were they designed for this purpose, or were they… corrupted over time?"

"That, I do not know," Solas says quickly. "Perhaps they had a happier past, but… I witnessed nothing of it in my travels. It is even longer-buried than Arlathan itself, if it exists."

"Interesting," Leas murmurs, and he scribbles some more. "So you tell me this because you do not want Adhlean to brand himself with slave markings, yes?"

"Yes."

"I don't think he would be," Leas says, and Solas sighs. There comes the catch, at last, if later than expected. "We are free, Solas. _Ele Dirthavhen: amelanen or'laim'eolas, virevhen or'u'vir. Ele fel'alathe or'Elvhenan, i tel'sal juvaslasir._" He murmurs the Oath of the Dales almost to himself, then speaks again, more loudly. "Whatever the _vallaslin_ were before, the Dalish have reclaimed them. They mark us out from the humans, and they honour our gods."

"I know," Solas concedes. "For everything I have said about the Dalish, I admire that indomitable spirit." He hesitates.

Leas smiles, but continues to muse, saying, "We _must_ get them to become adults, yes… but we choose the patterns freely. Adhlean will hardly submit to slavery by taking them, any more than I have. You realise this, yes?"

Solas looks away for a moment. "I do. But how can I treat them as anything other than what they were when it is the Dalish who cling on so stubbornly to Arlathan? You say they are different now, but you cannot pick and choose which parts of that society you wish to keep."

Again to his surprise, Leas chuckles. He lays aside his parchment and quill as Solas returns his gaze to him. "A very fine point. And I _have_ often wondered where so many of our traditions came from, and whether they did not indeed have an origin in something that we would prefer to forget or _chose_ to forget to make Arlathan seem better. It has not made me popular, I can assure you, questioning the truth of everything we hold sacred. But I say they _have_ changed, along with everything else about us—by necessity. We went from an empire to slavery, from slavery to a kingdom, from a kingdom to forced wandering: that is change. And it is no surprise that our traditions changed with these transitions and that we got things muddled up in our attempts to rediscover the past. But we have a present as much as we have a past, and in our present, the _vallaslin_ are _ours_. Do you understand?"

Solas lets out another sigh. "You make a fine point," he admits reluctantly. Part of him wonders if he would have accepted that argument from Iselen, or from any other Dalish who has not done the same level of thinking and questioning that Leas has. (And indeed, hearing of said thinking and questioning is enough to warm him to the man even more than events already have over the past year.) "But I, personally, cannot see the _vallaslin_ as anything other than the brands they were, nor the Dalish culture as anything less than a remnant."

"It _is_ in large part a remnant, if only because we hold so tightly to the past, to the exclusion of our present and future," Leas agrees. Solas relaxes slightly. "But we have the right to the past, after all else was taken from us. And we possess a living, breathing culture outside of that remnant. We have so many new traditions of our own, new positions, new everything. I would be happy to share them with you or to take you to my clan after this is over and let you observe it for yourself. As obsessed as we are, there _is_ more to us than our history," he continues, eyes gleaming as he defends his people. "I promise you. Please, Solas, do not let your encounters with other Dalish colour your image of all of us. Like the humans and the ancient elves, we are more complicated than that."

Another excellent argument, one to which Solas has little rebuttal. "I suppose that is true," he says. "If I dislike how the Dalish whitewash and romanticise the elves of Arlathan, then I myself cannot reduce the Dalish to their focus on the past. You are correct. I only wished to tell you this so your son might have some idea of what he will be bearing. That _you_ might have some idea."

Leas nods, smiling more broadly. "And I thank you for it, truly. This was enlightening. But you understand that Adhlean must take the path that is best for him in the present, that holds true to what we value right now."

Again reluctantly, Solas nods. "Of course. I do not mean to presume to tell his own father what the best course is for him. But I must thank you, too. I assumed you would reject this out of hand."

The young man shoots Solas a look of mock offence. "Solas! You wound me," he chides, grinning. "Did you somehow miss how open I am to hearing about our history? How willing I am to accept even the unpleasant surprises? Aren't you aware that _I'm_ aware that our ancestors were not perfect and in many ways no different from the humans?"

It is Solas' turn to chuckle. "_Ir abelas,_" he says, offering Leas a small smile of his own. "You are right. You have shown a willingness to learn that has often surprised me. Most people—human or Dalish—refuse to hear of anything that does not fit their preconceptions, but you, _lethal'lin_, will question even the _vallaslin_. It is refreshing. If I forgot, it is perhaps because I have spent too much time around Iselen."

Leas throws his head back and lets out another laugh. "Then you're forgiven," he says with a grin. "My brother is quite a personality, I know. Such a stereotype. But we're not all like him!"

"No, of course not. I suppose I thought even you would have your limits and would not wish to hear such truths about your _vallaslin_."

Leas shakes his head and stares into the fire, still beaming. "Not to reiterate the point, but the historical truth differs from what they are now," he says, and Solas refrains from arguing again. No need to go around in circles. "And, honestly, anything that helps fill in the gaps is fine in my book, even if it's not what I was expecting to hear. And I suspect seeing the looks on Deshanna and everyone's faces when I tell them this will be worth the surprise!" He cracks up again, and Solas stares at him disbelievingly and wonders, for a moment, if the man has a death wish. Or if he's insane. Or both.

"I'm surprised you find this so amusing. Doesn't it bother you that the ancient elves had slaves?"

Leas sobers, and there is silence for a time as he considers. Then he says, slowly, "Not especially. It's unfortunate, but we can't change the past. And why should it surprise me that our ancestors had some atrocities to their name? Everyone does, sad though I am to say it."

A refreshingly sensible attitude. "Very true," Solas says. "I wish others perceived things as clearly as you did."

"Perhaps they will, in time. You never know."

"Perhaps," Solas says, and he hopes that that is true even as he knows that it is not. Let him be wrong, let him be wrong…

"In any case," Leas says, putting his things back into his pack and standing up, "I think it's time we went to bed. It's a long journey ahead tomorrow." He extinguishes the last of the fire with a wave of his hand, and Solas stands as well. In the dark, their eyes glint, and Solas can just make out Leas smiling at him, as if he hasn't just been delivered a major revelation about such an important part of his existence.

_Fenedhis._ He might call this man _lethal'lin_, but he will never truly understand him.

"I look forward to seeing what lies at the end," Solas tells him, and that is also no lie.

Leas' smile widens into a grin. "Me too. I wonder if there'll be any more earth-shattering revelations there. I _hope_ there are… Poor Iselen, I fear his head might explode. In any event… _on nydha, hahren_," he says, and he gives Solas an affectionate, even thankful, pat on the shoulder.

"_Son era, lethal'lin,_" Solas says, returning the smile. He turns and heads into his tent, and as he strips and lies down for the night, he hopes that there are other Dalish out there who will react as well as Leas has. More than that, he hopes that when this information is disseminated among them, it might spur some of them to carve out a future rather than continuing to cling onto the past. They _do_ possess an indomitable spirit: surely they could succeed at anything they put their minds to that is within the bounds of reason, as carving a future is. And it would be better than the alternative.

_Let me be wrong,_ he thinks, as he has so often done lately, though he still sees no option other than the one he has always had. It had not filled him with dread before, but now…

Now he wonders, and the wondering carries him into sleep and beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**
> 
> _"Mar'ba'isa'ma'lin i'ar ely elithem i'melana den uan."_: "Your uncle and I had chosen by the time we were nine."
> 
> _"Elvyr sul'na."_: "Easy for you."
> 
> _"Melava juiroth i. Nea ishan i'vyn tuemah mar'elithast i've eolasas ra."_: "Time will rush by. You'll be a man and making your choice before you know it."
> 
> _"Ea son?"_: "Are you well?"
> 
> _"Vin."_: "Yes."
> 
> _"Ele Dirthavhen… i tel'sal juvaslasir."_: The Oath of the Dales in elven.
> 
> _"On nydha."_: "Good night."
> 
> _"Son era."_: "Sleep well."
> 
> All translations taken from FenxShiral's [Project Elvhen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7825850).


	9. Burgeoning Doubts

The dragon crashes to the ground with a roar, and it springs back, prepared for another blast of flame. Next to him, the Iron Bull laughs delightedly and holds his greataxe aloft, while Iselen knocks his mace and his shield together and presses forward.

But in the same moment that he does, Leas looks back at all three of them and raises a hand, bidding them stay. Bull frowns and lowers his axe, while Iselen freezes in mid-step and almost trips over, equally confused. Of them, Solas realises, he may well be the only one who can understand what is about to happen. He blows out a breath and leans on his staff, and he waits.

Leas, with no ceremony, now steps towards the dragon, which stares at him with less anger and more animalistic curiosity. Perhaps it can sense another of Mythal's creatures only by sight, or by some other sense, though even Solas cannot claim to know that for sure, and he does not care to speculate on it. Doing so stirs up his fury and worry for his friend within his chest again, his dark speculation regarding what will happen when he has taken what he needs from Mythal.

_Enough,_ he tells himself. _It is still not over. Concern yourself with that later._ It is not as easy as he wishes it could be. But just this once, he is able to lay it aside. Likely the sight before him helps. Leas steps closer to the dragon, and he cringes back as it roars and almost covers him in its spittle. After a brief pause, and here comes the real spectacle, his head starts to glow. A visible _power_ comes from him now, all directed towards Mythal's guardian, and the guardian goes still. From here, Solas can see its eyes flash purple as Leas—or the Well—or Mythal—works the requisite magic.

An ancient form of magic, he muses sadly as he observes, paying no need to Bull's dropped jaw or Iselen's bulging eyes. It was not so rare in Elvhenan (though few things were). That it has returned, if only to one person, should bring him joy. And yet…

_There would be joy if it came not from the Well, if Leas did not have to become Mythal's creature in gaining its power. If it was not being used, unknowingly or not, for her benefit and by her will, for he is hers, no matter what he says. And if…_ At this point, Solas' thoughts trail off into a bland melancholy, and he sighs. Never had he thought he would disapprove of Leas' thirst for knowledge or dislike his naïveté, but the Well had been a rather singular exception.

Not that it matters. Yet, anyway.

The glow now fades, as quickly as it came. All at once, the dragon takes off, flying away from the altar and through the trees into the clear sky far above. It is soon lost to sight, and nothing remains of its presence but the scorch marks it left on the ground. An astonished silence reigns in the clearing, and Leas turns around, looking none the worse for wear and no different from before. Solas observes him for a moment, tries yet again to reconcile himself to those unnatural golden eyes, and as before, fails utterly. He looks away.

"Okay, yeah," Bull manages after a long moment. His voice is flat with his incredulity. "_That_ was impressive."

Iselen shakes his head, seeming for all the world that he can't believe what he's just seen. "What? You—stared it down? And _bound_ it? Seriously?" he stammers. His eyes—a vivid but natural blue, a shade Solas misses in his twin's—flick from the sky to the place where the dragon just was.

"Seriously," Leas says, stepping back over to them. "it will come when I summon it. Once. That's enough to fight Corypheus, however. I have my dragon."

He passes them by and heads out of the clearing, and they follow him. "There's a sentence you don't hear every day," Iselen says, and Leas laughs. "_Fenedhis_, Uvun. How much _more_ can you do? And how much more could you do once you've had time to sift through things?" The questions stir the fear in his gut again.

Leas shrugs as he falls back in line with them and they head down the path back to where they left their mounts. "I don't know. I suspect binding a dragon to my will only scratches the surface of what I might be able to do. The ancients had _so much_ magic, it's almost beyond what I can comprehend. They say I will not be capable of all of it, for… reasons they will not explain… but there are things I could do that would turn heads even in Tevinter. With a little practice, of course."

"Just a little?" Iselen says while Solas shudders, knowing precisely what the _reasons_ for the limitations are.

"So it would seem."

Iselen shakes his head disbelievingly and chuckles. "Well, then. Deshanna will turn green with envy when she hears of this, I swear it. What did I say about you being the talk of the next Arlathvhen? I guess that's _one_ good thing about you drinking from the Well, even if…" He trails off, brow furrowing.

"As I've said, we'll just have to deal with the consequences when they come calling," Leas says, patting his shoulder. "For now, be glad that power is in my hands, and that I can use it to our advantage, and that I'm starting to make sense of the language and the knowledge. Whatever may come in the future, our people will profit from this."

_Perhaps,_ Solas says to himself. _It is all we can hope for. If this is a better alternative than my plans…_ There, he trails off again.

"Wait," Iselen says. "What happened with Mythal? Did you actually summon her?"

Leas seems to go slightly pale, and a faint grimace crosses his face. "I _did_," he says carefully, and Iselen lets out a shocked laugh, eyes popping almost out of his head again. "It's… all very strange. I need time to think about it. I'll tell you the full story later, but long story short? Turns out that Mythal is… or is _carried by_, I'm not sure how it works… Asha'bellanar."

Iselen stops dead in his tracks and turns to stare at his brother. "_What?_"

"Asha'bellanar is a host—I think—for Mythal," Leas repeats, looking distinctly unnerved. "Yeah, I don't understand why Mythal's in a human body, either, but… that's really the least of my concerns. It was quite an, uh, _enlightening_ conversation…"

They start moving again, but Iselen has gone white. "So… wait. That spirit that Asha'bellanar summoned to help her get revenge on her husband, that she joined with… was that _Mythal_?"

"So it would seem."

"_Creators!_ Why would Mythal come to a human host and not one of us? Why hasn't she answered any of our prayers all these centuries, if she had the means to? If she wasn't trapped in the Beyond like all the others?"

Leas shrugs. "No idea. I tried to ask, but she didn't really answer. I suspect she has her own agenda."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It may very well be so," Leas admits, sounding now as unnerved as he looks, and Solas lets out a sigh and rubs his forehead. _Now_ that the man has come into contact with the consequences of his choices, more than just a simple change in eye colour—now he is regretful, or something like it. Of course, he is. The poor little naïf. "But, again, we can't do anything about it now. It's tomorrow's problem."

Iselen stares uneasily at him. "As you say," he murmurs, and Leas subsequently moves the conversation to another subject entirely.

In the meantime, Solas descends into his own thoughts once again, returning to Leas' newfound power. In Mythal's service he may be, but Leas still has at least a _semblance_ of free will, and his ability and desire to learn have not changed at all. What he might become capable of given a few years or even a few months of study, besides what he was already capable of and what Solas himself _taught_ him… it almost beggars belief. The Veil is still in place, and so he will forever be a weakling in comparison to the ancient elves, but his power is far from inconsiderable in these days. What he could do, what he could be, what sort of threat he could pose…

_Fenedhis. What madness seized you when you decided to train him?_ Solas wonders, remembering well the mingled dread and excitement he had experienced so many months ago when he had learnt that Leas was a dreamer. _Even at the time, you had known this would end poorly, that you would make him a threat by instructing him. But you were so desperate for some crumb of familiarity that you did it, anyway! Foolish man! Did you wish to be proven wrong even then?_

For a long moment, Solas contemplates that question, wonders if even when he had seen this world as being full of nothing but Tranquil, he had hoped for a better solution. Tranquil are Tranquil, but people they remain, and to slaughter them en masse… Had he not been repulsed by the _oculara_? Why should he now say that his own mass slaughter of the Tranquil is any better, even if it is for a far greater purpose? Why should he ever have said it—or had some part of him always wanted another path? It is only recently that his duty has seemed such an ugly thing to him, but had he doubted even back then?

Questions he cannot answer, that much he knows. _Leas_ is the one with whom he should concern himself. Dread fills his veins, warms his blood to a sickly heat, clouds his head, turns his gut into knots. _He showed you that you are wrong,_ Solas reminds himself. _He loves this world, and if it is a shadow, he is still _right_ to love it. Foolish. If you had wanted no trouble, you should not have taught him nor let him befriend you!_ But Leas would have won his respect, anyway, even if Solas had kept his distance, wouldn't he? His actions would not have changed, nor his personality. Perhaps this was inevitable, simply because of Leas' own nature.

_The change, maybe. Not his power. You knew what he might become if he was taught, but you did it anyway. What have you done?_ Not so grave an error as his formation of the Veil, or as so much else that he did as Fen'Harel, to be sure, but it hardly matters. Leas is a man he is glad to call _lethal'lin_, the first since Elvhenan, but he is also his own worst enemy—one at least _partly_ of his own creation. He will never accept Solas' goal, not in a thousand years, and he will stand against him until one of them dies, however much it pains him. Considering it, Solas finds himself so torn that he's uncertain if he fears the coming of that day or welcomes it.

_Stand against me, by all means. Let me be wrong. But I must save our people, restore what I destroyed._ A contradiction, two diametrically opposed points, and for some time, his mind goes back and forth between them. As often, the simplest solution reoccurs and reoccurs to him: give it all up. Trust to Leas, Briala, and others like them. Let there be true reformation and _peace_. What does it matter if they do not have their magic and immortality, so long as they are equals? Even if he pulls down the Veil, it will not bring back everything. So why not give it up and take the harder, but more rewarding and less morally repulsive path?

But then he remembers Arlathan again: the spires climbing through the trees, the people who often took decades to cast a spell, whose magic paved the roads before them and blended with what had come before to create an unending symphony. The longing seizes his heart again, as it always does, and the shame of what he did, for the greatest mistake he ever made. How can he let that stand, even despite the cost? And how can he let his friendship with one man get in the way, however worthy a man he might be?

There is no answer, and so at last, his mind finally settles, the doubts fading somewhat. But he only need look at Leas, riding ahead of him now on his magnificent red hart, the shadow of an ancient elf and yet _more_ an ancient elf than any elf alive bar himself, for them to resurge. He cannot decide if it is fear of Leas' power or fear of his friendship that causes it, the sudden awareness that Leas, through his kindness and their mutual respect, could conceivably stop him even _without_ using his magic. If his doubts are so strong now, what will it be like when he finally starts to work on his plans in earnest? And how much, or how little, will Leas have to do to cause him to turn away for good?

Leas looks back at him now, and he asks, "Are you all right, Solas? You seem troubled."

"I am fine, _lethal'lin_," Solas says quickly, squaring his shoulders and trying not to seem so ill at ease. "But thank you for asking. I am just… eager for this to be over, I think."

Leas smiles at him, suspecting nothing. "As are we all," he says, and he turns his gaze back to the road. He does not know, need not know, that Solas spoke of something far different from what he believes.


	10. Catching Up

"Solas?"

_E, fenedhis. Not again. And here I thought I had lost him for good._ But as he well knows, the Fade is ever-shifting, ever-changing. Just because it has been many months since Leas last stumbled across him, that does not mean Leas is now incapable of finding him. In the end, all it seems to come down to is luck and his ability to sense somebody coming before they arrive. Sadly, every time Leas has found him, he has been so lost in thought and focused on his plans that he may as well have been blind to everything else. Tonight is the first time when Leas' greeting does not cause him to jump out of his skin.

"_Hahren?_ Solas?" The words are close at hand, too close for him to get away, and so Solas squares his shoulders and turns, a faint grimace on his face. Leas emerges from the fog of the raw Fade a moment later, descending a flight of stairs hewn in the rock. He approaches with a small, tentative smile on his face. His steps, too, are hesitant—not his usual confident stride, but slow, considered, and measured. He stops when he is just within speaking distance, allowing a much larger gap between them than he would have in the olden days.

"_An'daran atish'an, arani,_" Leas says now. "_Nuvenan ma son._"

Despite himself, Solas' face falls. He swallows, and it is some moments before he can speak. When he does so, he forces himself to hold Leas' gaze. "_Mar enaste lan em lath'in'iseth. Tel'ame, y emma serannas._" No need to lie to Leas in this, at least, though his heart clenches at the sight of Leas' smile vanishing. "_Nuvenan ma tas son,_" he adds.

"_Ame, emma serannas,_" Leas says, though even from here, Solas can see the worry in his eyes. He looks away from it after only a few seconds. For the thousandth time, he tells himself he should not have let himself become so close to the man. Far better to have kept his distance, so that Leas' concern now would not rend at his heart so. And more than that, he should not have taught him what he did… but then, it is pointless engaging in 'what-ifs', isn't it?

A brief silence ensues, then Leas sighs and steps closer. He says, "I wish we did not need to speak to each other in the _Ha'raj'vi'dirth_, _arani_. I'm aware many months have passed, but we are still friends, are we not?"

Solas sighs and bows his head. "We are, _lethal'lin_. I said to you that last day that you would always have my respect. That has not changed."

Leas nods, but he does not look at all reassured. He takes another few cautious steps forward. "Then I shall take your use of the formal tongue as a sign that you have not changed your mind and still do not intend to return?"

That, needless to say, had been one of the very first things Leas had asked of him the first time they had met in the Fade after Solas' departure. It has come up in every encounter they've had since, and that it comes up again now hardly surprises him. "No. I am sorry, but no," he says. "I know you said there will always be a place for me at Skyhold, and I believe you. But after what happened, I am not sure I can return."

"So you have said," Leas responds, his brow creasing. He pouts, just a little, though the action seems unconscious. "I will respect your wishes, of course, though I do miss you so. I only wish you would tell me what keeps you away, or if the orb can be repaired. The pieces are still at Skyhold. I could get Dagna to look at it if that's what you need." His eyes widen as he speaks, puppy-like as ever, and Solas' heart clenches all the more. He grimaces and shakes his head.

"I thank you for the offer," he says, well aware that his words are stiff but unable to come up with any other way in which to phrase them. "But I am not certain that even Dagna could repair the orb. And, to tell the truth…" He lets out another sigh. "I suspect I would have left even if the orb had not been broken. I cannot give you the details, but I have… things I need to do that require me to be away from Skyhold. And they do not allow me the time to visit, I am afraid," he adds, remembering Leas' inevitable objection.

Leas stares at him for a moment, then he nods, looking downcast. "As you say. I will not ask you to elaborate," he says, and the guilt twists Solas' insides even as the relief loosens them. "Still, I miss you. Much that has happened since you left that I wish you could have seen. Solasan in the Forbidden Oasis, the Frostback Basin, and now what happened in the Deep Roads…" He trails off, an unfocused expression coming into his eyes. For a moment, Solas allows himself to wonder about these things. He has seen Solasan in the Fade, and from there, he observed a few of the events in the Frostback Basin too. But it is not the same as viewing it in person with friends. The things they could have done together, the things they could have discussed… all lost. Because of his choice.

_You can still abandon it all now,_ he reminds himself, and the temptation is almost enough to strangle him. _Why not? Let the Inquisition change things. It would be so much a kinder way than tearing down the Veil. And it would keep the Evanuris locked away…_

But he dismisses the idea as quickly as it comes. He has already taken what he needed to from Mythal, and despite what Leas has to say about loving the world as it is while trying to make it better, he cannot accept anything less than the return of Elvhenan. Equals with the humans though the elves may one day be, if they still have none of their magic, none of their immortality, none of what _made_ them elves, then the real injustice will remain unaddressed. There is no other option.

"True," he says when he remembers that Leas is waiting for an answer. "I would have liked to have been there. I will simply have to content myself with watching what the spirits show me in the Fade."

"I would have liked to hear what you had to say," Leas tells him, resting a hand on his hip and leaning into it, more relaxed now. "I mean—Ameridan was alive after eight centuries!" At that, Solas manages a tight smile. "And he was so much like me. And the Avvar bound a spirit to a _dragon_. And the Deep Roads, Creators! The things we found! It was like nothing I could ever have imagined…"

Solas hesitates for a long moment, then he bites. "What did you find, _lethal'lin_? I know there have been earthquakes in the Deep Roads, but I have heard nothing of how the situation was resolved."

Leas blows out a breath and steps close enough to Solas to be standing at his usual distance from him. After a moment, however, he seems to reconsider, and he beckons Solas to walk with him. Solas does so, and they set off in a direction perpendicular to the one Solas had been walking in before they met. "Well, we found this creature called a Titan," he begins, and Solas' blood freezes. That name, he knows well. "It was disturbed by the Breach… somehow… even though the Breach opened two years ago and I closed it almost _a_ year ago. Anyway, it was… colossal. We were walking around _inside_ it, and it had a whole cavern full of fauna and rock formations and _a sky_. And it hit our dwarven companion, Valta, with a blast of raw lyrium. But she survived, and she gained something like _magic_. Which should be impossible. And its blood! Remember how I said once that I'd found out lyrium is alive?"

Solas nods, though he need not listen to Leas to know the answer. Fear builds a terrible pressure in his chest as he remembers the Evanuris, their war with a Titan. That had been where it had all began, hadn't it?

"Its blood is _lyrium_. The thing that Orzammar's entire economy relies on, that every nation buys, that's used by mages and templars alike… it's the blood of living creatures. I don't even want to think about what that means, Solas! Do you?"

Solas shakes his head and feigns surprise. "That is remarkable," he says. "I have always wondered where lyrium came from, how it could have such multifarious uses. That it is the blood of these Titans… even I never expected such a thing. Is there anything else you can tell me?"

"I'm afraid not," Leas says. "I left the Deep Roads with far more questions than answers. We passed what little we knew on to Orzammar, but I fear what will happen if we find out anything more. Valta said that the Titans were the first children of the Stone and that the connection she now has with _that_ Titan was like a parent recognising a child. But the dwarves honour the Stone… I can hardly imagine what this will mean for them. Worry creeps into his voice, and despite himself, Solas can't help but offer a wry smile.

"You are concerned for them," he says, almost teases. "Do you intend to help them through the shock when this information gets out?"

Leas laughs, recognising the jest. "I'm not going to go _that_ far," he says, grinning at Solas. "Sure, part of me would _like_ to… but I'm not a dwarf, and I know little about their religion or their history. It's not my place to interfere. Besides, even if I knew enough to help, I'm tied up with surface issues. As are most surfacers, I guess, but there's still much the Inquisition needs to do."

That gets him a curious look. "What are you planning? Do you have a new purpose in mind for the Inquisition?" It would be a miracle if the Inquisition can somehow not descend into the corruption and complacency that come to plague all organisations. It is not one that Solas believes even Leas, miracle-worker though he may be, can pull off. While they had a purpose, they were fine, though their internal security was always laughable. But now that Corypheus is dead, they will search for something new to do, and in this search, they will fall. It is as the tides are: predictable.

"There are still some rifts that need closing, and we need to mop up the remnants of the Venatori and the red templars," Leas says. "We can also lend our engineers and construction workers to rebuilding efforts and organise the delivery of provisions, medical supplies, and other aid to the Dales. We did that _before_, yes, but now we can really focus on it. I'm also having people working on cleaning up the red lyrium, especially in the Emprise. I'm not sure if the land can ever be fully healed, but I need to try. Apart from that…" He blows out a breath while Solas nods, satisfied. Multifarious goals, but solid ones. They will delay the onset of corruption and complacency, at least for a while.

A brief pause, then Leas continues, "Apart from that, I'm not so sure. I think I will have more time to dedicate to my _personal_ goals now, but I've told you about them. They require diplomats, lawmakers, politicians—not spies and soldiers. Not the way I envision them. There may come a day when I can find no more purpose for our army… in which case we may want to downsize. Orlais and Ferelden won't like us being in their territory for no good reason, and I can't blame them."

Very astute of him. "It sounds like you have a good handle on things for now," Solas says, smiling. "I feared what might happen once the Inquisition had fulfilled its purpose, but you seem to have taken steps to avert it."

Leas smiles back at him. "_'Ma serannas,_" he says. "It means a great deal to me that I still have your approval, _hahren_. The Inquisition might still lose its purpose yet… but that's tomorrow's problem, I think."

May he have many tomorrows. As inevitable as corruption and complacency are, it would be tragic if the Inquisition succumbed to such a fate after everything they have done. "Then I wish you luck, _lethal'lin_," he says, with another small smile. "You have been a good friend and a finer champion for the elves than anyone else I can think of, and you deserve success and ease in all of your future endeavours."

"You too, Solas," Leas says, and Solas bites his lip to keep from letting out a shocked laugh. Oh, if the man knew what he was wishing for… "I am sorry you don't feel you can come back, but I wish you well all the same. I hope we might meet again one day, after all is over, and enjoy the fruits of our labours together."

Solas smiles again, though he knows it is pained. "Likewise," he murmurs. "And before you ask, I do not require any assistance from the Inquisition in my travels. The path I am taking is one that I must take alone."

Leas stares at him for a moment, his brow furrowing as he examines him. Then he nods, though he looks dissatisfied. "If you insist. But the offer's on the table if you ever want to take it up."

_Oh, I will. Just not in the way you expect. I am sorry to deceive you, my friend._

"Thank you, I will remember that," he says blandly. As they walk, he shifts on his feet. It might be time to redirect the subject. "Now, if I may ask, how have you fared with regards to your magic since my departure?"

Leas evidently recognises what Solas is doing, but he only grins as they fall back into step again—a familiar habit that he has long missed. "Oh, I've been doing well. I've been training myself to Fade-walk further and further. So far, I've managed to make it to Nevarra."

"That is good progress. You sound as if you have an end goal in mind."

"I do," Leas says, nodding. His cheeks flush pink. "I'm hoping to make it all the way to Minrathous. Dorian will be going back to Tevinter eventually, and I, er…" His blush deepens, and he looks away, rubbing the back of his neck and chuckling weakly.

Solas only smiles at him. "You want to surprise him by meeting up with him in his dreams."

"Correct. And I really _would_ like to surprise him. Just imagining the look on his face…" Leas' smile widens into an affectionate grin. There is silence for a moment as he contemplates the idea. Then he adds, "There is much we could do. He could _show_ me Tevinter—in our dreams. All the fascination, none of the risk, no need for him to worry about me being in danger—from magisters and slavers, anyway. I should thank you again for teaching me all this, Solas. I wouldn't be capable of this if you hadn't."

"And I am as pleased as ever that it has been so beneficial to you," Solas says, and he means it, even as his heart sinks. "As I have said, you have a rare gift, and it is one that should be enjoyed. Perhaps you might use it for peaceful or intellectual purposes, rather than for war alone, now that Corypheus is dead."

Leas nods vigorously. "I _hope_ so," he says. "I'm aware there are many other offensive applications for this gift that I have yet to discover, but I've killed enough people in their dreams. I would much rather spend my time now learning more about walking in and shaping the Fade and watching spirits re-enact history—the way you do. Things like that."

"Worthy goals, indeed," Solas tells him, smiling wider. The pause that follows is comfortable, much the way it was in the old days, and that alone is enough for him to sink back into melancholy and doubt. Again he wonders if this was necessary, and again he tells himself that there can be no other path.

That he has to keep asking himself this is telling.

To distract himself, Solas looks back at Leas and asks, "What of the Well of Sorrows? How much have you gleaned from it?"

"Quite a lot," Leas responds. "Most of it to do with the language. I've learnt enough by now that I've started working on a dictionary. Iselen's been helping me with it. Dorian too—he wasn't sure, but I told him there's a certain _fitness_ in a Tevinter aristocrat helping reconstruct what his people helped destroy." He laughs, and Solas can't help but chuckle too. "I'm getting the hang of the syntax, too, the grammar… things like that. It's… amazing, just finally being able to _understand_…" He lets out a dreamy sigh. "My people will _love_ this. I can't wait for the next Arlathvhen."

"Yes, I imagine it'll be quite the event," Solas admits. "What else have you learnt?"

Leas blows out a long breath. "Some magic. Old spells from Arlathan, techniques for making my current spells even better. I've tried them out—they're fascinating. The voices say they're not what they used to be, but most of them are glad they're being used _at all_. They've also let me in on a few old stories, like the one about Falon'Din you mentioned in the Temple of Mythal. And a couple of… _enlightening_ ones about Elgar'nan. I know he was the god of vengeance and all that, but I had never suspected he was so… brutal." He shakes his head, and Solas grimaces.

"His title alone implies it," he says, and he clenches his fist as he remembers Elgar'nan's tyranny. In many ways, he had been the very worst of the Evanuris. "For what little it is worth, I am sorry you had to find out that way."

"It's all right," Leas says, chuckling. "It was _surprising_, yes, but given what Elgar'nan did to his father and how Mythal had to calm his rage afterwards—well, it wasn't exactly out of left field. In any event, I'm hoping my people will be open to hearing these stories even if they don't paint such a pretty picture. It's more than we used to have. As for the rest of it, I've had a few scraps here and there, but nothing worth commenting on. I'm fine with that. Makes it all easier to handle."

"Well, I am glad you are profiting from this," Solas tells him, reluctantly. "Do you still stand by your decision?"

"I do. I _am_ concerned about what Mythal—Asha'bellanar—is planning and how she might use me for it. But that's a bridge I'll have to cross when I come to it. For now, I think it'd have to be something _horrific_ to make me regret drinking from the Well. I've learnt far too much." When he mentions Mythal, Solas looks away, and he has only just schooled his face back into a neutral expression by the time Leas has finished talking.

"I understand," he says after a long moment. "I still do not agree, but I understand."

"It'll be all right, Solas, I'm sure," Leas says. He reaches out as if to pat his shoulder, but at the last moment, he evidently thinks better of it and retracts his hand. "I just need to—_ahhh!_"

At his sudden cry, Solas jumps, and when he looks down, his blood chills and his heart sinks even further. The Anchor is glowing, sending out furious sparks in every direction, and it seems to distort the surrounding area. Leas gasps and grasps his wrist, almost doubling up with his pain while the glow builds up to nearly the size of his hand.

"_Fenedhis,_" Solas murmurs. He bends down so that his head is level with Leas' and touches his hand. "Leas, let me…"

At once, Leas lets go of his wrist and holds out his marked hand for Solas to take. Even here, the power of the Anchor is sharp and stabbing like an obsidian dagger, and Solas winces as he gingerly grasps the hand it scars. The guilt wrenches his stomach into so many knots as he waves his hand over the Anchor and works what magic he can. Almost immediately, the glowing and sparking die down, but not as much as Solas had hoped. His stomach plummets as he realises what that means.

"This is deteriorating," he murmurs. "I'm sorry, _lethal'lin_. These episodes will come with increasing frequency over time. I think you will be fine for the time being, but give it another year, and it may be beyond control. In which case…" He trails off, not liking to consider the possibilities.

Leas nods, not seeming disturbed or surprised. "I suspected that might be the case." He sighs. "Another problem for the days to come. Is there anything I can do for the time being? Can you show me that spell you just did?"

Solas gives him an apologetic look. "I would, but I fear the magic involved is beyond even your skill level. In the waking world, it requires a very precise manipulation of the Veil, and that would take years to master. Longer than you have. I am afraid you will simply have to content yourself with healing spells and whatever Vivienne and Dorian can provide."

For half a moment, Leas looks suspicious, but then he nods, disappointment overtaking the momentary flicker of incredulity on his face. "As you say. Thank you anyway, Solas," he says. He looks back down at the Anchor, which is still sparking. "I think I had better go. It will be easier to deal with this back in the waking world."

"I understand. I should probably get on my way myself," Solas admits, nodding. "Good luck, my friend. I am sorry that this pains you so." Sorrier than Leas can ever know.

Despite his pain, Leas manages a smile. "I will be fine. I always am," he says airily. "Good luck to you too, Solas. _Dar'eth shiral. Sule tael tasalal._"

Solas bows his head, heart clenching again with the guilt. So much better it would be if they did _not_ meet again, and he can only hope that this meeting satisfied Leas enough that he'll stop trying to seek him out in the Fade. But for the time being, the deception must continue. "_Ethas na, i'ea son._"

Leas manages another smile, and then he fades, vanishing within seconds as he returns to the waking world. The Anchor is the last of him to disappear, and even afterwards, its spark remains visible, glowing greener and brighter than it should. Solas watches, hating again what his magic did, dreading what it will do. Again the temptation to abandon it all rises to choke him, and again he pushes it away.

Then he turns back around and continues further into the Fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**
> 
> _"An'daran atish'an, arani. Nuvenan ma son."_: "The place you go is a place of peace, my friend. I hope you are well."
> 
> _"Mar enaste lan em lath'in'iseth. Tel'ame, y emma serannas."_: "Your grace warms my heart. I am not, but thank you."
> 
> _"Nuvenan ma tas son."_: "I hope you are also well."
> 
> _"Ame, emma serannas."_: "I am, thank you."
> 
> _"Ha'raj'vi'dirth."_: lit. "King Language", formal variant of elvhen.
> 
> _"Dar'eth shiral. Sule tael tasalal."_: "Go safely on your journey. Until we meet again."
> 
> _"Ethas na, i'ea son."_: "Be safe, and be well."
> 
> All translations taken from FenxShiral's [Project Elvhen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7825850).


	11. Final Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Apologies for the delay, I've been busy with life. I hope you enjoy!

The instant the Viddasala has finished petrifying, her spear fixing in place before it can leave her hand, Solas hears quiet gasps behind him, the sound of metal dragging across grass. He does not look yet, does not much wish to. His agents have told him, not that they needed to, that Leas' arm is in a dreadful state, that it will not be much longer before the Anchor consumes him. Solas can speculate well enough what it will look like, even smell like. But despite that, and despite the fact that Leas' armour will hide the damage, still, he steels himself. Not just for Leas' arm, not only for the Anchor but for everything. How to explain all of this… and how much does Leas know…

"Sol… Solas," Leas pants. Only his name, but Solas blinks. The word seems to have come from below him. He turns, slow and deliberate, and when he does not see Leas' face in front of him, he looks down. At once, his eyes widen.

Leas is crawling—has obviously crawled all the way up here from the last eluvian, not so far below. His skin is ghastly white, his cheeks sunken in, his hair limp and lustreless, and his eyes—gods, those eyes—are green, not just in their irises but in their pupils and whites. His arm is glowing, the veins brilliant green up to his shoulder, and the Anchor sparks furiously in the palm of his hand, continuous, never-ending. His breath is ragged and uneven, and though he tries to support himself on his good hand, it soon gives way, and he almost falls on his face. In the same moment, the Anchor flares up again, and every one of Leas' muscles goes taut as he screams and convulses. The sound is harsh, as if he has been doing a lot of it already.

_Ir abelas, lethal'lin,_ Solas thinks, his heart clenching and sinking almost to his feet. A dreadful sight, though not much worse than what he had expected save for the crawling. But it still rends at his heart, provokes the guilt into rising and trying to strangle him again. He swallows around it, barely, and he glances at the Anchor. His friend deserved so much better, and now he will pay a dreadful price for an action that was not his own. Solas need not see his arm to recognise that it is beyond repair and will have to be removed. He can't do that, not here, but he can at least hold off the pain of the Anchor for a while. With a single glance, a single thought, that is done, and Leas sucks in a deep, sudden breath as the Anchor's sparking ends. He then glances up at Solas, his eyes returning to their normal state of white, gold, and black, and he staggers to his feet.

"That should give us more time," Solas murmurs. Enough time? Perhaps not, but they will see. "I suspect you have questions."

Leas holds the elbow of his damaged arm in his other hand and stares at Solas. He grimaces, his eyes going wide and puppy-like as they always do when he's stressed and confused. This time, misery is clear in his expression, as well. "The Qunari answered some of those questions. The information I found while travelling through the eluvians answered more." He pauses, draws in a deep breath, fright and something like betrayal replacing the confusion in his eyes. And who can blame him, after all the terrible stories of _him_ Leas was raised on? "You're Fen'Harel. You're the Dread Wolf."

Solas offers him the smallest of smiles, as if that could assuage the sting, heal the pain of this blow. Nothing will, will it? "Well done," he says, and he means it. No surprise that Leas would figure it out, for he has always been sharp, but he is glad the man saw so clearly, regardless. So saying, he plunges into the explanation. "I was Solas first. 'Fen'Harel' came later… an insult I took as a badge of pride. The Dread Wolf inspired hope in my friends and fear in my enemies… not unlike 'Inquisitor', I suppose. You also know the burden of a title that all but replaces your name."

The much younger man's breath audibly hitches, and there is another pause. Solas remembers well how Leas had used to behave years ago. How often did the man act out and make decisions without heed to the consequences or what other people felt about it, much like a teenager—and how much trouble did it cause before he wised up? His behaviour had been baffling until Cole had explained to Solas that Leas feared to lose what he was, to become something different from who he was. After that point, Solas had understood perfectly. Leas had been a young man trying to remain himself and not get swallowed up by his title, and as deleterious as his actions were, who could blame him? It is a hard enough life being _only_ a title.

But they are not entirely here for Leas, are they? "I saw the stories as we travelled through the eluvians," he says. "Are they true?"

"They are closer than the Dalish legends, though still prone to making me into something more than I am," Solas tells him at once. Perhaps the same could be said of every legend that ever speaks of heroes, villains, and false gods, but the passage of time and the loss of so much have made the few remaining elven legends into something else entirely. Looking at them now, the resemblance between the various personages (or perhaps 'characters' is the better term) and who he remembers them to be is… scanty.

Leas' eyes only get even wider and more puppy-like than ever, but the sorrow in them is recognisable. It is the same look that Leas always pulls out when he faces a friend or an enemy who he has a reason, no matter how small, to pity. Solas is familiar with it, even grew used to it no matter how much the inherent naïveté of such a thing baffled and pained him. But it had never once occurred to him that Leas would direct it at _him_, at the Betrayer of his people's legends. Surely, he had thought, such a revelation would be too much even for Leas, that knowing the truth of his actions would put him beyond sympathy. Yet here they are, Leas staring at him with only pity and sorrow for _him_ in his eyes, and Solas now wonders why he's so surprised. Leas could pity _anyone_.

"I'm so sorry, Solas," he says, and painful sincerity radiates from every word, the way it always does. Solas' heart clenches again. "What you've seen… I can't imagine."

_When will this pity of yours end,_ Solas wonders as they stare at each other. _I am as unworthy of it as all your other enemies who you've ever pitied. When you learn the truth in full, will you pity Elgar'nan despite his monstrousness?_ That is a rhetorical question. No doubt Leas will at least pity, if not Elgar'nan himself, then the lost potential, the concept of what he _could_ have been but was not.

And there is so much lost potential, so much that could have been…

That concept spurs him into beginning the explanation in full, the story he has held close to his chest for so long, perhaps too long. The words come easily, more easily than he had expected, and as he talks, the old memories drift through his head and pull him in, leaving him awash in them. After a certain point, he almost does not see the marvellous scenery down below the cliff, and indeed, the only thing that he truly notices is Leas himself. The man never grows angry, nor does he weep, nor does he even seem that confused. He only asks questions and listens to the answers in patient silence, and he never objects or protests. As ever, he is entirely open-minded, more than willing to see beyond the preconceptions the Dalish instilled in him. But he does not laugh, not like he did that night when Solas told him the truth of the _vallaslin_, so long ago. For all that Solas knows that this is not something to laugh at, still, he wishes Leas would. He wishes all the more when he looks back at Leas after explaining how the Veil took everything from the elves and sees a tear trickling down his cheek.

But when Leas looks at him again, there is still no blame or resentment in his eyes. Quite the opposite—there is only perfect understanding and sympathy, as if he can comprehend, or is trying to, _why_ Solas believed he had to do what he did. It rends at him, and after a few moments, he has to shift his gaze elsewhere. _No, lethal'lin, you should not be so generous. I suppose I should not complain when other Dalish have been only hostile and suspicious, but you are too kind. How many elves died, directly or indirectly, because of what I did? How can you forgive that?_

Here, Leas redirects the subject towards the future, and Solas walks away from the cliff, closer towards the eluvian that will take him away from here. Leas follows behind him and again listens in silence while he explains. While his words are poetic, they are also blunt, and he does not shy away from the ultimate confession of his plans. It is almost anticlimactic, not as grandiose as it ought to be, but that thought hardly crosses his mind. He can sense Leas freezing, and he turns back to see that all understanding has gone out of his face, as one might expect. Confusion replaces it, and horror, and perhaps an inkling of panic.

No surprise. Solas would have held there to be something wrong with Leas if he had continued in his insane understanding even to this point.

"You're going to… destroy this world?" Leas breathes. His eyes go wide again as he speaks, and he visibly swallows, what little blood there is in his face leaving it.

"Not happily," Solas says, as if that makes it any better, as if knowing that what he is doing is wrong can make up for the fact that he is going to do it, anyway. What sort of monster is he becoming, anyway? Is he any better than the Evanuris, though his motives are purer?

Rhetorical questions again. He does not need anyone to answer them for him.

After a few moments, Leas seems to recover his power of speech. "You know I'll have to stop you… _arani_," he says, voice soft and sorrowful, and Solas looks away again. Foolish man. He should _not_ be calling him a friend, not now, not after what he's just learnt. Why does he persist? Is he in denial? Does he think his friendship will be enough to turn him away?

It might be, he realises. If Leas could show him another way… it might be enough.

He bows his head. "I know you will try, yes, _lethal'lin_."

Further explanations and questions follow from there, about his plans, the orb, the eluvians, the corruption in the Inquisition, the involvement of his agents, everything Leas had always deserved to know and now finds out at last. Leas looks increasingly weary and sorrowful as their talk goes on, his eyes getting ever more puppy-like with almost every sentence Solas says. But he remains patient, as ever, and never once raises his voice in anger. That has always been his way, but Solas can name few people who deserve it less than him.

Only once does Leas' patience crack, and that is when Solas admits it had been like walking in a world of Tranquil. Unsurprisingly, Leas, who has always seen people as _people_ first, no matter what, recoils from him. His eyes bulge, and his mouth twists into a tight grimace. Solas does not look away—should not. "We aren't even people to you?" Leas murmurs, in the manner of a man who has had about all that he can take but has just found something new to be horrified by.

"Not at first. You showed me that I was wrong… again. That does not make what must come next any easier," he responds. Again, as if saying that could make any of this better.

When Leas has finished with his questions, he lets out another sigh and looks down at his hand. The Anchor is pulsing green, an ominous sign. "There's still the matter of the Anchor. It's getting worse."

"Yes. I'm sorry. And we are almost out of time." Now, Solas looks away, knowing what is coming, hardly able to bear to see it. His friend deserves nothing of this.

Almost on cue, the Anchor flares up several times larger than Leas' hand, and his veins—up to his shoulder— glow green again. Leas collapses to his knees, and Solas winces as his scream—protracted, harsh, _tortured_—claws at his eardrums. He wills himself to look back, avoids glancing at Leas' face, sees the armour melting and smoke rising from its gaps, smells the metal fusing to Leas' flesh. Shudders and twitches wrack the man's body, almost like seizures, and Leas' scream abruptly cuts off. He remains on his knees, but Solas knows that it will not be long before he blacks out—and if he does, he might not wake up again.

"The mark will eventually kill you," he murmurs. "Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you… at least for now." Small consolation, he knows.

Leas now collapses from his knees almost onto his face. He lands on his elbows, and they are only just enough to support him. He looks up at Solas, and even that movement he struggles to accomplish. When he speaks, the words are soft, breathy, and punctuated by gasps. "You… don't need… to destroy this world… _arani_," he says. He speaks _arani_ with a hint of fierce determination, as if Solas is still his friend even now. Solas bites his lip. "I'll prove it to you."

Solas stares sorrowfully down at him. Oh, but how right he hopes Leas is. "I would treasure the chance to be wrong once again, _lethal'lin_," he says as if he isn't wrong already.

Leas swallows and gasps again. "But if I can't… prove it… then I'll stop you. You know… that…"

And what else can they expect? "I know," he says, and he kneels. "Take my hand. I'm sorry."

Leas falls further forward, his good arm now bearing the weight of his body, as he lifts his hand. Solas can feel the heat of the Anchor even before their hands touch, and it is searing, almost indescribable in its fury. A miracle Leas made it all the way up here, but there it is. Within a few seconds, he's worked the spell he's been waiting to use for years, and the Anchor has come away. The task complete, he stands and watches Leas again, but there is no expression on Leas' face now. For a long moment, they just stare at each other.

Then Solas turns away. "Live well, while time remains," he says, every bit as softly as before, and he walks off. As his breath comes in shuddering gasps out of a chest so tight, his ribs might break under the pressure, as he clenches his fists and tries to hold himself together, he is keenly aware of Leas watching him. The temptation looms to go back to him and return _with_ him, and it almost brings him to a halt.

But he keeps walking, ignores the sound of Leas collapsing to the ground though it pains him, and he soon passes through the eluvian.

* * *

After he returns from the lavatory, Leas collapses onto his bed and rests his head against the headboard with a groan. He flings his remaining arm over his stomach. "Gods. I haven't felt this _awful_ in years," he mutters. "Even after waking up from losing my arm… even when I was going through the Darvaarad. I just wish it would _stop_. I wanted to talk to Dorian through midnight…"

Taralen hesitates, but Telahmisa knocks him with her elbow. When she glares at him, he springs into action. "Oh, right! Er, Leas, do you want any more of that medicine?"

Leas sighs and tilts his head in Taralen's direction, but doesn't open his eyes. Even in the little light provided by the candles, his face is ghastly pale, his cheeks hollow and sunken in. He looks half like a corpse. "I wish. But I've already taken my limit for the day, and I'm not about to go over it."

Telahmisa leans forward and pulls the bottle containing the drug from her pocket. "What about this?" she says, and Leas cracks open one eye and peers at the bottle. "This is like that other stuff we've been giving you, but stronger. It'll block your access to the Fade _and_ help you sleep better. No guarantee it'll keep you from waking up needing to _throw_ up, but…" The best part is it's not even a lie, not totally. It's just somewhat more potent than she's leading Leas to believe.

She's hardly got the words out when Leas nods, the gesture almost frantic. "Please. What I wouldn't do for a bit of solid _sleep_…" he says, and he sounds relieved. The deep shadows under his eyes show the reason for that clearly enough.

"What about Dorian?" Taralen says nervously as he shifts in his seat. "Don't you want to call him first? Tell him you can't, er, make it?" He visibly swallows.

"This'll take a while to kick in, like most drugs," she lies. Oh, it'll take time, yes—but not as much as he thinks. "You'll have time to call him and tell him what's going on. I'm sure he'll understand." She speaks the words with a slight veneer of disdain, and once again, the question of how Leas can lower himself enough to love a Tevinter passes through her head. But she says nothing of it as she unscrews the bottlecap, pours the correct dose, and hands it to Leas. He drinks eagerly, unaware, and he does not notice Taralen flinching and looking away, guilt written all over his face. As soon as he's drunk, he slips under the covers and smiles at them.

"_'Ma serannas_, you two," he says. "Last few weeks haven't been… haven't been ideal. I'm glad you're here to help me."

Telahmisa smiles, though it's more like a smirk. At the same moment, Taralen cringes again and says, "_De da'rahn._" He speaks so quickly that Leas spares him a glance and furrows his brow, but he does nothing beyond that. Instead, he lays down and turns onto his side.

There's their cue to leave. "I think we should let him rest," Telahmisa says, and Taralen nods and rises from his seat. After they bid Leas good night, they head out of his room, shut the door behind them, then walk about halfway down the corridor so he'll think they've left. They come to a halt, and Telahmisa leans against the wall while Taralen fidgets with the end of one of his sleeves. "So, we're doing this at last," he mutters.

"Yes, we are. Nice job almost giving us away."

Taralen groans and flushes a deep red. "He didn't suspect anything, and even if he did, there's not a lot he can do about it. Besides, I'm not… comfortable with this, Telahmisa…"

She sighs. There's Taralen's conscience again. "You know why this is necessary."

"Yes, I am." The uneasiness in his face, the way he bites his lip and glances about him, belies those words. "It's just… this has been going on for _weeks_ already. We all but sabotaged him with the magebane. And now we're about to drag him off to parts unknown after he's already lost so much. I know why it's _needed_, it's just… he was our clanmate once, and he's done so much. He deserves better than this."

"He stands in the way of a better world for our people," Telahmisa informs him coolly. "All so he can keep sucking human cock, in more ways than one. He's more of a traitor than we will ever be." Taralen flinches and opens his mouth to argue, but then he closes it again, evidently reconsidering.

How can she be argued with, anyway? For all his so-called championing, Leas has always shied away from the harsher actions, the _real_ methods needed to win their freedom back. He is too much on the side of the humans to accept what they must do, and that makes him an enemy. There is nothing in their world that their two peoples share—it is either humans or elves. And if Leas wants to side with the humans, then she'll treat him like one. His efforts are admirable, but they are not enough, and she cannot wait for the peace he alleges will one day be. Not after the stories that her parents told her, not after what little she's seen in Halamshiral.

A couple of minutes later, Telahmisa pushes off the wall again. "Come," she says, and she and Taralen turn and head back down the hall. They enter Leas' room to find him passed out on the bed, as expected. He breathes deeply and heavily, and his sending crystal is in his hand. At once, Telahmisa grabs the bottle of magebane, opens it, and dumps most of the contents into Leas' mouth and makes him swallow. That dose will be enough to make him seriously ill again when he wakes up, but not enough to kill him.

"You are aware that'll be flushed out of his system eventually," Taralen says as he pulls back the sheets.

"Eventually. Why do you think I've been having him poisoned since he got here? It'll take weeks, at least. And with his sending crystal _also_ gone…" So saying, Telahmisa reaches behind Leas, undoes the chain of the crystal, and pulls it away. She stuffs it into her pocket.

Taralen cringes again. "Is that also necessary?"

"Yes." She smiles as she says it, a little vindictively. "This will keep him from contacting the magister. And once he's shut out of the network, he'll have nowhere to go, and his friends won't be able to find him. Not for a long while, at least." If things don't come off immediately, then it may well be nothing more than a stopgap—but they have to try. Anything for a better world.

"Sounds like there's more to it than that. What do I do with his possessions?"

"Roni will come along later to pick them up and dump them somewhere. And maybe there is," Telahmisa muses as she stuffs the crystal into her pocket. "The sending crystals were elven. If I can get this to a mage who knows how to work them… it could be used to our advantage. But beyond that…" She scowls. "I can't fathom why he would accept such a gift from a _Tevinter_. Disgusting. He needs to remember what he is, what shape his ears are."

Taralen stares at her. "So this is about spite."

She shrugs. "Whatever it's about, you can't deny this is necessary. Now come on. Lift him. We need to get moving." For a moment, he hesitates, but then he nods, his pout and the pallor of his face screaming his reluctance. He puts his arm under Leas' prone form, lifts, staggers under the sudden weight, then slings the man over his shoulder. Without another word, they leave the room and head back out into the corridor.

The entrance to this part of the palace is, for the moment, unguarded—Telahmisa timed this for the brief pause in between guard shifts. Nevertheless, they remain silent and stick to the deepest shadows as they cross the scant distance between the guest quarters and the room containing the eluvian. Though she has none of Taralen's uncertainty, even she feels a jolt of anxiety as they make their way, and even the presence of many other elves heading in the same direction provides no comfort. By the time they reach the room, unmolested and seen by none, her hands are sweaty.

The room is packed full, holds several dozen other elves much like her parents, sick of their abuse and ready to do anything for freedom, for a better world. Several pairs of eyes go wide at the sight of Leas in his vulnerable state, but none make a peep. Telahmisa gestures, and the exodus begins, elf after elf slipping through the eluvian into the Crossroads, taking—hopefully—the first of many steps into the future they haven't had since Arlathan fell.

But now it is coming again, and that sends a thrill of excitement down her spine as the pair of them fall into line and pass through the eluvian. Taralen staggers again as he carries Leas on his shoulder, but he soon finds his balance. A solitary mage wanders behind them, her purpose to seal the eluvian once all have gone. Doing so will hopefully be one of the last acts of petty human magic she ever performs. In time, Creators willing, they all will have magic again, and they will remake the world to suit their image, and never again will they submit.

And if Leas has to be sacrificed for that—if his son and brother have to suffer—if many people have to suffer… well, the world's ending, anyway.

Their suffering is an acceptable price to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, at least for now! I hope you've enjoyed this work, and I'd appreciate it if you left a comment or kudos if you did. And who knows, you may see more of it when DA4 comes out.


End file.
